


i'd rather have

by orphan_account



Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - K-Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jihoon-centric, M/M, dont eat dinner at 9pm kids you'll turn into an asshole, everyone also has poor eating schedules, everyone is an asshole: the fic, moderately ooc woojin for the purposes of the prompt, or... kdrama esque..., side jinhwi, slowburn, spoiler alert it is, theatre kid!jihoon, too much swearing for a kdrama au bc its me, top student!woojin, winkdeep but not endgame, wow this sounds like a clusterfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: if there's one thing jihoon prides himself on, it's his coy and confident demeanour. it only takes an equally as confident, and more than a little elitist, classmate to send his façade crumbling— and jihoon isn't quite sure what to do about it.





	1. entwine

**Author's Note:**

> i loved this prompt (asshole woojin can i get a hell yeah), and i really had fun writing it. to the point where i got a bit carried away and it doesn't really feel like a kdrama au any more, but i hope it's still okay.  
> it also uhh ended up a lil too spicy at times to be entirely kdrama-esque but you know what *slams fist on table* we need MORE SPICE  
> thanks to one of my close friends for being the inspiration for jihoon's character, and for some kdrama i forgot the name of for giving me the bare basics of a plot. my recipient, i love you!
> 
> (jinyoung is aged up + hyeop aged down to be in the same grade as the 99 liners)

_act one: entwine_

 

 

 

Jihoon would rather have been hit by a car than be in school right now.

 

First days are always the worst days. His longstanding knowledge of the fact doesn’t change his hyper-awareness of the way he strides into the room, which seat he chooses, how he moves to sit down—

 

One hand on the back of the chair, cold against clammy hands; plastic legs screeching across hard floor, screeching much too loud; the stares of his peers, more intelligent than he’ll ever be.

 

He’s not sure which higher being has caused him to be forced into a class with the highest ranking of his year group, but he’s cursing every single one of them pre-emptively.

 

To his own surprise, he’s not the last to arrive. It’s nice to be able to watch with feigned indifference as each student files in, studying their faces to find someone he knows even if vaguely. None of them are entirely familiar, none of the faces he wants to see. He’s caught up in wondering how they managed to separate him from _the entirety of the rest of the theatre club_ when a face peeks through the doorway, sending a wave of nostalgia crashing over him.

 

_Jinyoung?_

 

He doesn’t let it leave his lips, just observes carefully as the boy takes cautious steps into the room, all long limbs and blank stares. He waits, watching as the other look up from the ground sparingly, just enough to take in the faces looking back at him. When he doesn’t make a move to sit with the others, Jihoon takes in a breath, willing himself to appear relaxed.

 

“Jinyoung.”

 

The other’s head snaps up, eyes scanning the room until he meets Jihoon’s gaze. If they hadn’t spent the best part of 9 years together, Jihoon might have missed the way his eyes widen slightly, brows raised just a fraction. But he knows, and he knows Jinyoung is still unsure of what to do, so he gives a nod in assurance.

 

“Hey,” Jihoon offers as Jinyoung takes the desk adjacent to his. He still seems to be struggling to gain his bearings, not entirely sure of himself, so he continues softly. “It’s been a while, huh?”

 

“Two years,” Jinyoung responds.

 

“Yeah, it feels like it’s been forever though,” he flows on, familiar by now with the other’s terse manner of speech. “Is it alright if I ask…?” He trails off, eyeing Jinyoung’s expression. The younger shrugs. “What’s made you transfer here? I thought maybe you knew some of the other students, but that… doesn’t seem to be the case?”

 

Jinyoung shakes his head. “I don’t know anyone here.”

 

“You know me.”

 

“... Yeah.”

 

There’s a hint of something underlying their words, that same something that hangs in the air between them; and when Jihoon looks at Jinyoung, _really_ looks at him, the familiarity of his soft features brings on a fond sentimentality, blooming in his chest.

 

Jinyoung looks away.

 

Eyes fixated intensely on his desk, Jinyoung resumes, voice just slightly lower. “My parents were tired of me not applying myself. Told me I could surround myself with more hardworking students here.”

 

Jihoon gives a short laugh. “Well, you sat next to the wrong person.”

 

There’s a light smile playing on Jinyoung’s lips as he replies, “I know.”

 

There’s an all-too-familiar obedient silence settling in the room, and sure enough, sharp footsteps against the ground assure Jihoon that their first teacher has arrived. He lazes back into his seat, tearing his eyes away from the boy next to him to feign interest in the words coming from the front of the class. The welcomes and introductions carry on, growing into a blur of vague sounds and formal gestures. He’s already finding himself growing detached, entranced with his own thoughts, and his blurred train of thought somehow brings him to a consideration of whether he should offer Jinyoung the chance to join the theatre club with him. The fleeting thought leads him to the image of Jinyoung, all stiff expressions and small movements, acting under bright spotlights and the scrutiny of an audience. He’s grateful for his ability to hide his bemusement at the idea.

 

The phrase, “To get to know each other,” ringing through the rigid air jolts him out of his trance.

 

_Please no, it’s been what, 10 minutes?_

 

“... Your first assignment will be a group project, in pairs.”

 

Jihoon sinks lower into his chair. It’s not all bad, though; at least he has someone he knows, even if they haven’t seen one another since their middle school days. It means he’ll have an excuse to catch up with the two years of Jinyoung that he’s missed.

 

“I’ll be selecting your pairs randomly, to ensure that each student has equal opportunity to get to know someone.”

 

Jihoon suddenly finds himself longing for a car to hit him again.

 

He’s grateful that Jinyoung gets paired with someone nice, a somewhat underachieving kid who is all bright smiles and enthusiasm. Jinyoung still looks highly uncomfortable, not meeting eyes with his partner, but Jihoon would rather that than him being stuck with some elitist piece of—

 

“Park Jihoon will be paired up with Park Woojin.”

 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

 

Jihoon closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. After taking a second to regain his composure, he turns around, putting on the sweetest smile he can muster.

 

In return he receives an indifferent stare, and a hand gesturing crudely for _him_ to move closer.

 

He’s practically seething already, but he’s not going to let some overachiever have the satisfaction of seeing him aggravated. Instead, he keeps his expression neutral as he stands to move closer to the back of the classroom. The chair squeaks in protest as he takes the seat next to the other, and Jihoon finds himself thinking _yeah, me too._

 

The boy’s eyes are sharp, studying him carefully. His gaze doesn’t waver, and Jihoon finds himself shifting in his seat despite himself. He’s not one to show discomfort when eyes are on him, but this guy will _not stop staring_ and it’s really starting to feel unsettling.

 

“Hey,” Jihoon tries.

 

“Woojin.”

 

“Ah, it’s nice to meet you, I’m Jihoon.”

 

“When are you free to work on this?”

 

“Uh,” Jihoon stumbles, suddenly at a loss for words at just how disjointed this conversation feels. Possibly more one-sided than the teaching style he’s dealt with for the past two years at this school. ‘Possibly’ being the key word. But Woojin isn’t wavering in the slightest, so he asks, “Tomorrow evening?”

 

“Can’t. I have a study session,” Woojin replies bluntly. There’s a hint of something else in his forthright manner of speech, though, that Jihoon can’t quite put his finger on— haughtiness? Defensiveness? Maybe if Jihoon paid any attention in class, he’d be able to find the right word.

 

“I feel like it makes more sense for me to be asking when you’re free,” Jihoon laughs. It’s not genuine in the slightest, but it’s convincing enough, and Woojin doesn’t seem to be taking any interest in him anyway.

 

“Saturday and Sunday evenings.”

 

There’s a reply threatening to spill from his lips, a scathing _‘really, the fucking weekend,’_ but in the reality of such a competitive society, and one that prides academic success over anything else, it really isn’t all that surprising. And Jihoon’s not scared, would never be scared of some condescending top student, but the atmosphere is too stifling for him to feel comfortable throwing slights.

 

With an accepting nod, Jihoon resigns himself to four weeks of terribly uninteresting weekends.

 

“Let me put my number in your phone. So we can figure out specifics.” Woojin is already holding out a hand expectantly, so he complies. He has to hold back a sneer as he reads the new name in his contacts.

 

_park woojin_

 

So impersonal.

 

They’ve been told to start planning the project together. But when Jihoon looks back up from checking his phone, the other already has his head down, eyes focused on the page in front of him. Jihoon has no idea what he’s even doing, since they haven’t even discussed which of the topics they’re choosing to present on. _Maybe he’s chosen for them?_ He probably doesn’t want input from someone like him. _Or, maybe he’s just really good at pretending to be busy? Is that a thing that top students do?_ He doubts it, but he’s not about to interrupt the other’s workflow to ask questions. Or say anything at all, really.

 

The silence between them is deafening amongst the hushed, albeit constant, chattering amongst classmates. He’s thankful for the commanding voice of a teacher cutting through the murmurs, letting them know that they’d be continuing with their lesson and to move back to their seats.

 

“How did it go?” he asks Jinyoung in the small time he has to speak before their teacher interrupts. He’d much rather hear about the younger’s experience than give another second of thought to the horrendous excuse for a social interaction he was just confronted with.

 

The voice from the front of the class starts up again, so Jinyoung gives a nonchalant shrug in response. Not that he would’ve expected anything more from his childhood friend, regardless of the setting. He’s still the exact same as he was years ago.

 

Jihoon likes it.

 

 

 

With the bell ringing in their ears, Jihoon’s hand finds its way around Jinyoung’s arm, clinging on at the elbow. He’s not usually this pushy, but he knows the other would have hesitated to follow along, probably would have ended up eating alone. There’s a hint of a repressed smile on the younger’s face as Jihoon pulls him along, only stopping when they reach a spot against an outdoor wall. There’s a familiar face beaming up at Jihoon. His expression turns only slightly when he realises there’s a new face next to Jihoon, raising his brows as he questions, “Who’s this?”

 

“This is Jinyoung, we went to school together,” Jihoon chirps, letting go of the said boy’s arm as he moves to settle against the wall.

 

“Oh! It’s nice to meet you, I’m Hyeop.” he says warmly, giving Jinyoung a nod of acknowledgement.

 

Jinyoung bows his head slightly in return, “I’m Jinyoung.”

 

“He knows that,” Jihoon chuckles. “I just told him.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Hyeop joins the laughter, but there’s no hint of mockery in it. It’s genuine mirth, and that’s what Jihoon likes most about him. It seems to comfort Jinyoung, too, judging by the smile gracing his face.

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

It's always been routine for them, the same patch of grass, laughter and complaints mingling all the same in their fleeting break from the monotony of academics. And, within a week, Jinyoung becomes a part of that routine. It’s as if he’d always been there, occupying the spot next to him, the two of them sharing their space, sharing forgotten stories, sharing muffled laughter.

 

He’s grown so accustomed to having Jinyoung by his side that there’s a peculiar kind of loneliness residing in the back of his mind as he shuffles into the first theatre club meeting of the year.

 

There’s a distantly familiar screech of, “Jihoon!” and a delicate body crashing into him. He stumbles back, blinking as he attempts to regain balance enough to figure out who the culprit is through blurred vision.

 

“Dae… hwi?”

 

“I was worried I wouldn’t ever see you here! I thought you’d be too busy for me, probably act like you’re too cool for me— oh no, is that a thing? Do you not want to associate with the new kids? I don’t want to ruin your rep, I’m sorry—”

 

“Daehwi!” he interrupts through breathy laughter. “It’s fine, I just didn’t recognise you when you were flying at me.”

 

“Oh, good— I was going to say, there’s no way you’re too good for me.”

 

Jihoon just shakes his head with a soft smile, letting go of the younger. “I forgot you’d be coming into highschool this year.”

 

“Ever-forgetful,” Daehwi tuts, making his way back to the small crowd of students already occupying the room. “Now you’ll have to deal with me every Friday.”

 

Jihoon moves to take a seat next to Daehwi, despite the fact that he’s closer friends with most of the older, more established members of the club— he was never all that close with the kid, the age gap and Daehwi’s general busyness preventing any kind of meaningful relationship, but he does it anyway. To make him comfortable, he supposes. Not that Daehwi’s ever had a problem with fitting in; Jihoon is yet to find someone who doesn’t dote on him like the little prince he is. There’s no feasible reason to dislike Daehwi. He’s genuine in everything he does, all beaming smiles and affectionate touches.

 

Jihoon wishes he could be the same.

 

“How’s your first week been?” Jihoon asks, putting on an inquisitive smile.

 

“Good! Or, well, good but I feel like I’m already drowning in work.” Daehwi slumps back in his chair for emphasis.

 

“Really? First year was like a breeze.”

 

“Jihoon, that’s because you don’t _do_ anything.” He says it with a joking tone, but they both know there’s a very real truth behind the statement.

 

“And you do too much,” Jihoon retorts. “You’ll do well, though.”

 

“Thank you,” Daehwi replies with a bright sincerity.

 

He’s about to change the course of conversation to Jinyoung’s switch of schools when the room starts to settle into an attentive silence.

 

“I— uh— are we starting now?” The light voice of one of his peers commands the attention of the younger students. Everyone seems a little confused, a bit unsure of themselves— this is only the second year of the club, and with the departure of the previous year’s leaders came the departure of the club’s command.

 

“Yes?” comes the hesitant reply from another, just as confused, member.

 

“Okay, uh. I guess we’ll get started by introducing ourselves, then we might work on appointing leadership roles?”

 

Their ad hoc leader is entirely benign and unassertive, but the students follow along regardless. They settle into a rhythm— it’s a little offbeat, but that’s to be expected from a group of students like this. If it were any other club being this disorganised, he would have left by now, but with the second year of the theatre club comes the second year of Jihoon realising his purpose.

 

And as he says his ‘thank you’s and ‘goodbye’s for the night, he can’t help but think it’s a little cruel that the world has designated him a dream with such bleak job prospects.

 

 

 

The first week of school has drained every last fibre of energy out of Jihoon’s being. No matter how much he doesn’t put effort into his general studies, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s an effort to be there at all.

 

Which is why, when woken by a series of texts, he lets out what is probably the loudest groan of his nineteen years on this earth. He blinks hard, trying to adjust his eyes to the relentless light of his phone.

 

“One in the morning,” he whispers to himself in annoyance, voice cracking at the end from a lack of use. _Who on earth—_

 

**park woojin:** you ok for tomorrow?

**park woojin:** i was thinking the public library

 

The temptation to write back _not if you keep waking me up at one in the fucking morning, what is wrong with you,_ is tingling at his fingertips. He’s not one to be easily angered, although Park Woojin seems to be resolute on making Jihoon question that judgement. It’s not even that receiving a text in the middle of the night is odd in itself— it’s more that this particular text is the purest culmination of all of his partner’s arrogance and utter lack of consideration for anyone other than himself, and Jihoon wants none of it. He breathes in deeply, exhales through his nose, and starts typing.

 

_yes, thats fine._

 

He squints at the screen for far too long, reading the draft over until he’s calmed down enough to reevaluate his tone.

 

**park jihoon:** yes ^^ all good

 

He cringes as he hits send.

 

There’s an internal debate going on inside his head, as he thinks, _what the actual fuck jihoon, why are you sending him emojis,_ which then turns to, _i don’t know, maybe he likes emojis,_ back to _why are you lying here at one in the morning questioning what ‘park woojin’ likes._

 

**park woojin:** i’ll be there from 5, come whenever you can

**park jihoon:** ok! ill be there ^^

 

In the haze of his half-asleep state, limbs heavy with fatigue, it’s hard to push away his doubts like he normally would. It’s this that allows an unwanted thought to creep in, slipping its way through the cracks in his resolve.

 

_Maybe I just want to be liked._

 

 

 

—

 

 

Jihoon isn’t sure how long Woojin will actually stay at the library, or whether he’ll wait for him at all, but he figures he’ll get there as late as he possibly can without causing Woojin to promptly murder him in the middle of a room full of silently studying students.

 

Realistically, he’s trying to minimise the amount of work he does in any way possible, so he’s the asshole no matter what— but he’s not sure that his presence is going to be appreciated regardless.

 

The time reads 5:30pm when he manages to bring himself to the library. He types a hasty message to Woojin, announcing his arrival and asking where the other is seated. When the response comes, Jihoon can’t decipher what it means at all— and it’s then that he comes to the realisation that he doesn’t even know his way around the library, and no description Woojin provides is going to help him find his way.

 

(Not that he’d want to risk asking for more information from Woojin anyway, because _boy_ , does he sound even more pissed off through text than in person.)

 

And so, on a Saturday evening, Jihoon finds himself wandering aimlessly through a multi-level library, gaze shifting in search of a face he’s equally unfamiliar with. It’s astounding to him that there’s enough students in the library at the beginning of the semester to cause confusion regarding Woojin’s whereabouts. He’s considering going back home— or considering it as even more of a real possibility that he was before— when he swears he recognises dark hair, nose down, buried in his work.

 

But as he walks past, he realises the guy is sitting at an individual desk, and surely Woojin doesn’t have _that_ little faith in him—

 

“Hey?”

 

His head snaps around.

 

Nope, it turns out Woojin just has no faith in him.

 

“Oh, hi— sorry, I couldn’t find you.” He hopes that his sheepish smile is enough to feign innocence, but Woojin doesn’t seem to take any notice. The other barely spares him a glance as he packs up his things, walking past Jihoon. He figures he’s meant to follow, and he does so wordlessly.

 

“Here.” Woojin’s tone is still clipped as he places his belongings on a small desk, taking a seat in one of two chairs facing one another. Jihoon sits, and just blinks at the other until he realises he should at least be opening his laptop, or something. Neither of them say a word, and it’s not exactly a comfortable silence. Jihoon hasn’t even done anything, and the other is already tense, a distant feeling in his steely eyes. He decides he’s going to brave it anyway.

 

“So, uh, any ideas for what we’re gonna do?”

 

“Yeah, South Korea’s involvement in the United Nations.” Woojin points to what is presumably that exact text on the assignment sheet, which Jihoon can’t even see and definitely did not remember to bring. He’s brought back to his first meeting with Woojin, and realises that his sharp words just confirmed his suspicion that he had indeed chosen their topic without his input.

 

“Oh,” Jihoon replies dumbly. Woojin raises a brow at this, and it snaps him back into composure. “What do you need me to do?”

 

Jihoon watches as the boy in across from him leans back in his seat, seeming to ponder on the question with crossed arms.

 

Or as a show of arrogance, he supposes.

 

“I don’t want you doing much,” he starts, eyes staring unrelentingly at Jihoon. “You can put together the background and history part. I don’t want you to ruin it.”

 

Jihoon doesn’t flinch, just observes with a light smile. “Harsh, but true,” he mumbles, pulling his laptop closer. He opens his browser, content with ending their conversation, until he realises he has no idea what he’s actually meant to be doing and doesn’t have the assignment notification with him. “Can I, uh—” Woojin’s eyes glare up at him from his laptop, posture unmoving, “can I borrow the sheet? I didn’t bring mine.”

 

Woojin doesn’t respond, his gaze moving back to the screen. Jihoon thinks he’s going to ignore his presence entirely, until the sound of paper against wood alerts him to the fact that the other has discreetly slid the sheet towards him.

 

It's something, at least.

 

The hours pass, Jihoon gradually growing even more grateful to his past self for eating before he left, because Woojin seems set on not moving an inch from his seat. If there wasn’t this rigid divide between them at all times, Jihoon would prompt him to go eat something, tell him to look after himself— but there’s an invisible wall he hits every time he tries to utter anything at all.

 

The more time passes, the more he realises just how out of place he feels. He’s trying to look like he’s getting work done, and actually accomplish enough that Woojin won’t straight up murder him before he leaves, but the unfamiliarity of the situation is manifesting in a certain unease deep in his gut.

 

It's already 9pm when a mutter catches his attention.

 

“I’m going to eat something, you can go home if you want.”

 

With the hope that his relief isn’t overly obvious, Jihoon waves the other off. “Have a good night,” he smiles.

 

Woojin is completely unresponsive, to the point where Jihoon wonders whether he imagined saying anything to the other. He can feel his expression turn blank as he stares after his retreating figure.

 

“What a fantastic person,” he grumbles under his breath as he closes his laptop, collecting his belongings.

 

 

 

There’s another text.

 

_1:30am._

 

He’s not shocked this time, but there’s still that same annoyance, tingling through hands gripping tightly onto his phone.

 

**park woojin:** i’ll be there tmr as well if you want to come

**park woojin:** probably should since barely anything got done

 

His jaw clenches, and the all too familiar heat of anger rises through his stomach, coming to settle in his chest.

 

**park jihoon:** ill be there at 5!

 

He’s not sure why he’s doing it— maybe it's out of some kind of spite, seeking revenge by acting as nice as possible. But what is he hoping to get out of it, other than the sick satisfaction of seeing a superiority complex crumble to pieces?

 

Maybe that’s all it is. Maybe he really is that spiteful.

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

The next day is eerily similar, but Jihoon doesn’t fail to notice a key difference. He finds Woojin at the same desk they were seated at yesterday, two seats, the space on his side of the tiny table left clear.

 

“Hey.” He speaks softly, pulling out the chair with slow movements.

 

“Hi,” comes the reply, just as impersonal as the voice in the late-night texts.

 

Jihoon doesn’t bother trying to salvage the conversation, just breathes in, opens his laptop, and starts to work.

 

(He might spend the larger part of 4 hours on social media, but Woojin doesn’t know that.)

 

It’s nearing 9pm when the ache of sitting stationary for hours on end is impossible to ignore any longer. He’s getting restless, and he’s becoming hyperaware of every movement, every sound he makes. In hopes of quelling some of the discomfort, he attempts to stretch out his legs under the desk, but he hits a leg that definitely does not belong to a table and _oh god,_ he’s found himself tangled in Woojin’s legs.

 

He pulls back, but as he does, Woojin’s foot gets caught around his ankle, preventing him from escaping and everything is going terribly, horribly wrong. “Sorry, my— I was trying to stretch—”

 

“Stop trying to touch me,” the other deadpans.

 

It really shouldn’t be funny, but the ridiculousness of the situation combined with Woojin’s serious tone causes him to duck his head in muffled laughter, hand coming up to cover his grin in hopes that the other won’t take notice. When he’s calmed down enough to look up, there’s a slight smile playing on Woojin’s usually sharp features.

 

It’s the only time Woojin has ever smiled at him, and it’s when he’s made a fool of himself.

 

Fantastic.

 

Jihoon fumbles a little when sliding his laptop in its case, and he’s _really_ hoping the other is too disinterested to notice.

 

“I’m going to head home,” he says, already standing to leave. “Make sure you eat.”

 

He’s already walking away when he hears a quiet, “Thanks.”

 


	2. rising

_act two: rising_

 

 

 

Hyeop skips school that Thursday. It’s just Jinyoung and him, backs pressed up against the same building as always, the only difference being the odd lulls in their conversation left by the absence of their eldest and loudest third. It's in one of these silences that Jihoon decides to check his phone. Jinyoung stays quiet, staring into the distance as he continues to eat. Jihoon thinks he’s zoning out entirely, and he finds himself praying that he’s correct in his judgement when he fumbles with his phone, floundering to catch it before it hits the ground.

 

There’s a quiet laugh from beside him.

 

“Be quiet,” Jihoon grumbles. “I liked you better when you didn’t speak. You were too shy to laugh at me.”

 

“Sure,” Jinyoung replies simply.

 

There’s another silence that falls between them. It’s hard for Jihoon to tell exactly what Jinyoung is thinking or trying to convey through his tone of voice, the same monotony pervading everything he says. He’s not usually one to bring up serious topics, but the lack of conversation is starting to become unsettling at this point, so he asks, “You know I wasn’t being serious, right?”

 

He watches the other’s expression carefully, and it remains impassive even as he nods. “I know,” he starts, and it sounds convincing enough. “I was just thinking about how you haven’t changed much.”

 

“How so?”

 

“You still constantly drop or lose your belongings.”

 

“Jiny- are you serious?” he sputters. “I thought you were going to say something nice and thoughtful, and you insult me instead.”

 

The younger ignores him in favour of looking him over, gaze lingering on the hands clutching onto the almost-dropped phone. “I don’t think your hands have even grown. You still have baby hands, no wonder why you drop things.”

 

“My hands are a perfectly normal size, thank you very much,” he retorts, putting down his phone to splay out his fingers, holding his hand out between them. Jinyoung doesn’t fight back, never does, instead giving a slight shake of his head as he reaches a tentative hand out. Fingertips graze softly across his palm, moving to hold gently onto his index finger, movements slow and deliberate. Breath leaves him, and he stays still, unmoving, as the other inspects his hands, pads of his fingers pressing gently against his skin as he turns Jihoon’s hands over in his.

 

The feeling is that of the purest kind of curiosity, one that Jihoon thought he abandoned in the earliest days of adolescence, never to be experienced with that same intensity again. Yet here he is, at nineteen, filled with the kind of butterflies suited to a Park Jihoon at least five years younger. He loses himself in a January day of years prior, the air tasting of bitter cold and realisations, the only warmth coming from lithe fingers holding loosely onto his (and maybe also the heat burning from somewhere within his chest, making its way up to his cheeks).

 

Jinyoung mumbles from beside him, “Your hands are so cold,” and Jihoon thinks maybe neither of them have changed much after all.

 

“They always have been, that’s just how they are.”

 

There’s the traces of a carefully concealed realisation in Jinyoung’s expression as he pulls his hand away. “You still have abnormally tiny hands,” he says bluntly.

 

He wants to respond, _and you have an abnormally tiny head, Jinyoung,_ but there’s something about the other’s demeanour, cold yet oddly sensitive, that always leaves any biting remarks to wilt into quiet acceptance.

 

Nostalgia is a strange thing, he thinks, and it’s only stranger when it begins to tint memories of romances past.

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

Some semblance of normalcy returns along with Hyeop the next day, except it doesn’t at all, because Jihoon finds himself being unable to concentrate on anything other than Jinyoung’s presence by his side. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing to be preoccupied with, except for the fact that there’s something else that feels _off_ in this classroom and he can’t divert his attention for long enough to figure out just what it is that’s tugging at the back of his mind. His eyes wander over the rest of his classmates in a possibly not-so-discreet coverup for the glance he steals at Jinyoung, and it’s only when he looks over his shoulder that it hits him— his project partner isn’t in class.

This wouldn’t be even remotely interesting if not for the fact that the ramblings of their current teacher are entirely uninteresting, and moreso, the fact that this is _Park Woojin,_ the same Park Woojin who would probably rather come to class with a severed arm than not show up, who is missing from his seat. It incites an unnecessarily fervent curiosity in Jihoon, and he finds himself taking out his phone, glancing quickly to his side to make sure Jinyoung isn’t watching. He hesitates for a second, knowing that this is a little too invasive even for someone as nosey as he is, but he starts formulating a message nonetheless. He’s careful to ensure that the tone remains distanced, as all their interactions are, with more than a hint of underlying genuine— disingenuous?— concern.

 

 **park jihoon:** hey, i noticed ur not in class, are u okay to work on the project tmr or sunday?

 **park jihoon:** if ur unwell dont worry about it

 

It takes an alarming amount of time for a response to come through, so much so that Jihoon almost starts paying attention in class.

 

 **park woojin:** yeah i’m not well.

 

He blinks down at his lap. The response doesn’t really give him anything— no indication of _what kind of_ unwell, no information as to whether they’re meeting up on the weekend or not, and enough time has passed that it doesn’t seem what Woojin is going to provide either of those things. He locks his phone, ready to give up on the conversation, when his screen lights up again.

 

 **park woojin:** probably won’t be able to leave the house, sorry.

 

Jihoon tries to tell himself that the sharp, indescribable feeling that hits his chest should not be assigned the name _concern,_ because if there’s one person who doesn’t need his faux-concern it’s the stoic, and quite frankly, asshole-ish Park Woojin. But that feeling compels him to reply, maybe forming a stronger driving force than his desire to see Woojin falter.

 

 **park jihoon:** is everything ok?

 **park jihoon:** do u need me to do extra work to make up for it?

 **park woojin:** it’s fine, i just have the flu

 **park woojin:** and just do whatever you can

 

There’s another pause, and he starts to type a response.

 

 **park woojin:** if you could manage to give me notes from today's class that would be great though

 

The use of the word _manage_ carries moderately insulting undertones, as do most things Woojin says to him, but the fact that Woojin is asking something of him at all is surprising, and Jihoon guesses it’s— progress? He has no plans of speaking to the other after the conclusion of the project, but there’s something satisfying about watching him come undone, even if it’s the slightest chip in Woojin’s walls.

 

It’s when he finds himself sneaking out of the school grounds, Jinyoung’s notes tucked under his arm, fingers hastily typing, that Jihoon realises he might be taking the idea of _progress_ a little too far.

 

 **park jihoon:** whats ur address, im bringing u notes

 **park woojin:**??? can’t you just send me pictures?

 **park jihoon:** theres like 20000 pages

 **park jihoon:** also jinyoungs handwriting is questionable

 **park jihoon:** u live nearby dont u?

 **park woojin:** i have no idea who jinyoung is, but i’m sure it’s better than yours

**park woojin has shared his location.**

**park jihoon:** oh

 **park jihoon:** ill be there in like 10!

 

Despite all of his brazenness in skipping the entire last part of his school day, not to mention asking for an almost-stranger’s home address, Jihoon finds himself feeling highly unprepared when faced with the concrete reality of being physically at Woojin’s front door. Or rather, at the end of Woojin’s driveway, because he’s kind of sweating from the walk and definitely not because he’s nervous, because he’s not, and he’s definitely going to knock on the door after the heat removes itself from his face.

 

He stands at the driveway for five minutes before giving up and texting.

 

 **park jihoon:** im here

 **park jihoon:** sorry i didnt want to go to the door in case i freaked ur parents out or something

 

Jihoon waits for a response, but nothing comes, until the distant click of a front door jolts him out of his daze and he’s met with the sight of a head peeking out from the doorway that seems equal parts disorientated and annoyed. He pulls the stack of papers from under his arm, walking hurriedly to the front of the house. It would be kind of cute, really, the way a section of Woojin’s hair sticks straight in the air like some kind of exotic bird— except for the fact that his gaze carries more hostility than any bird of prey Jihoon has ever seen. Coupled with Woojin’s apparent refusal to speak, this proves to be a moderately frightening experience.

 

“Uh, these are the notes,” Jihoon manages, holding the pages at a steady distance from himself.

 

Woojin lets out a noise that sounds somewhere between a frog’s croak and a strangled whine before clearing his throat and saying a rough, “Thanks.” There’s an odd pause where Woojin doesn’t take the notes, and Jihoon doesn’t say anything because he’s expecting for Woojin to take the notes and promptly shut the door in his face. Instead Woojin peers behind him, cracking the door open slightly further. His voice is still uncharacteristically quiet with illness as he asks, “Did you drive here?”

 

He tries not to let it show that he’s taken aback by the question, keeping his eyes on the other’s face as he answers, “No, I walked.”

 

“That’s,” Woojin looks down at him, meeting his eyes in a thoughtful gaze, “a lot of effort.”

 

“No? Not really.” It’s clear by now that Woojin isn’t planning on taking the notes from his hands any time soon, so he holds them close to his chest again.

 

“Do you—” Woojin clears his throat again. “Do you need a drink or something?”

 

Jihoon’s mouth hangs open for a second before he can form a response. He’s suddenly very aware of the dryness of his mouth, the way his fingers tighten around the paper in his grasp, and the uncertainty tinting his voice as he replies, “Uh, if you don’t mind…”

 

“It’s fine,” comes the blunt reply, Woojin pulling the door open with light movements. Jihoon takes that as enough invitation to take a few tentative steps inside, slipping his shoes off as Woojin closes the door behind them. He’s following the other’s steps when Woojin breaks the silence with a harsh, “Shouldn’t you be in school right now?”

 

The question is as jarring as Woojin’s tone of voice, and it makes him flinch for a moment before he regains his composure. He lingers awkwardly a few steps away from Woojin, watching as the other prepares a glass of water. “I left early,” Jihoon responds, giving a shrug despite the lack of Woojin’s attention on him.

 

Woojin slides the glass in Jihoon’s general direction, eyeing him sternly as he moves to pick it up. “You seriously have no regard for your education, do you.”

 

It’s not at all phrased like the question it should be, and that fact has Jihoon averting his eyes as he takes a sip, delaying his inevitable need to answer. “They let me leave, it was fine.”

 

Woojin responds, “Pretty sure that’s because you’re lowkey manipulative, but okay,” and Jihoon comes very close to choking on his water.

 

Before he even realises, a harsh, “Do you want these notes or not?” slips from his lips. Woojin’s gaze is unrelenting, albeit sluggish with sickness, and he raises a brow that has Jihoon freezing in place.

 

“Funny, I thought you weren’t capable of anything but faux-sweetness.”

 

Panic starts to settle in, a poison that seeps in through his skin, rendering his limbs tense and heavy. He tries to apologise, but it’s drowned out by the sound of Woojin falling into a coughing fit, holding a hand over his mouth as he turns away. Eventually it softens, but Woojin is still holding in light coughs with a hand resting against his chest. “Sorry, are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Woojin manages, but it sounds a bit too restrained to be entirely normal.

 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have come when you’re sick.” Jihoon sets the papers down on the kitchen counter, his brow furrowed. “I should go, you shouldn’t be talking anyway.”

 

The shake of Woojin’s head in reply surprises him. “You’re fine,” he starts, and Jihoon starts to wonder whether anything _isn’t_ this passive-aggressive ‘fine’ that Woojin is always referring to, “it was just unexpected.” Jihoon watches his expression carefully, and he finds himself contemplating whether the softness of Woojin’s features is simply evidence of his illness or if it really is aimed at him.

 

“Oh. Okay,” Jihoon responds, hovering uncertainly between leaving and staying.

 

“While you’re here,” Woojin strides closer, picking up Jinyoung’s notes in his hands, and Jihoon struggles not to shrink in on himself, “Do you want to get something done for the project?”

 

Jihoon utters, “But you’re ill,” and _oh god, is that genuine concern infecting his voice?_

 

“I have the flu, not some debilitating disease.”

 

Woojin’s expression is unreadable, but the very fact that it doesn’t seem to be an expression of utter distaste is enough to have Jihoon nodding. “I mean, I’d rather not, but if you really want to...”

 

Woojin gives a resolute nod. “I’ll just get my things,” he says, walking past and disappearing into a nearby room.

 

It’s a little odd, the fact that Woojin brings his laptop and schoolwork out into the main room and proceeds to set up his things at the dining room table. It’s not as if they’re friends, but there’s something so impersonal about refusing to let Jihoon take a single step into his room, but he doesn’t press the matter further, sitting down after a brief pause of confusion. He sets to work, finalising what he had worked on the week prior, Woojin occasionally giving him orders on what to work on next. They settle into a rhythm— he wouldn’t call it a _comfortable_ rhythm, but it’s some kind of rhythm, nonetheless— but the feeling of discomfort doesn’t leave him, no matter how much he tries to focus on the work in front of him. The space is too open, too formal, and he feels out of place, almost as if someone’s watching him, even though Woojin clearly has no intentions of paying him any attention beyond the occasional _‘make notes from this article for me,’_ or _‘put this into the presentation.’_

 

Despite the unsettling openness, the air feels stifling, and it doesn’t help that he’s still in his school uniform and the collar is _a bit too high_ to be considered comfortable. Jihoon shifts uncomfortably against the seat, tugging at the offending collar, when he realises that the feeling of eyes on him isn’t just his imagination and Woojin is definitely staring him down right now.

 

“Sorry,” he blurts out, unsure of why he’s even apologising for a perfectly normal action, “I keep accidentally choking myself with this school shirt.” At Woojin’s lack of response, he laughs, “Why are the collars so high?” in a poor attempt to bring some kind of relatable element to the otherwise stilted conversation.

 

“Accidentally,” Woojin echoes, looking back down at his notes, and Jihoon’s heart skips a beat because _what the actual fuck, was that just a kink joke from Park Woojin?_

 

He masks the shock with a sweet smile and the inquisitive raise of his brows as he responds deviously, “What? Don’t you find the uniform uncomfortable?”

 

Woojin sends him a sceptical look before murmuring, “I guess so,” and returning to his work.

 

Jihoon returns his attention to his laptop for the moment, satisfied with the other’s perplexity; but with the vibration of his phone against the table comes the realisation that he’s already spent far too long in the house of an almost-stranger, and the contents of the message only heighten his awareness of the fact.

 

 **baeji:** are you coming back?

 **baeji:** this kid from the drama club asked me

 **parkji:** oh shit

 **parkji:** yeah ill be back i might be late for the meeting though

 

He opens his mouth to explain to Woojin that he has to leave, _probably should have left at least an hour ago_ , until something catches his interest— because this is Bae Jinyoung, the same Bae Jinyoung who almost outright refuses to speak to anyone he’s not already on good terms with.

 

 **parkji:** wait who asked

 **baeji:** idk

 **baeji:** small, loud

 **parkji:** first year?

 **baeji:** i think so

 **parkji:** … daehwi?

 **parkji:** jinyoung he literally went to middle school with us

 **baeji:** oh

 

Jihoon runs a hand through his hair, resigning himself to Jinyoung’s abstractness with the action of locking his phone and a light sigh. There’s no sign of response from the mop of dark hair across from him. He _knows_ Woojin is observant enough to take notice, but for whatever reason, he barely ever chooses to show it. “I have to go,” he prompts, closing the lid of his laptop.

 

“Oh,” Woojin responds, a little too quietly judging by the way he clears his throat before speaking again. “Okay, bye.”

 

Jihoon pauses, spending a moment too long letting his eyes linger on the other’s impassive expression. It’s as if none of the events of the past few hours ever occurred, Woojin retreating back into his show of detached arrogance, not even bothering to give a ‘ _see you around’,_ or at least walk him back to the entrance.

 

His fingernails dig into the strap of his bag as he says, “Thanks for having me, I hope you feel better soon!”

 

Woojin barely spares him a glance and a slight nod.  


 

 

“Where were you?” Daehwi whispers into Jihoon’s ear after he shuffles in apologetically.

 

“Long story,” Jihoon mutters, keeping his eyes fixed to the club leader.

 

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

Sunday mornings are made up of sunlight dripping lazily through half-closed curtains, the first breezes of early Spring, and apparently, texts from Park Woojin.

 

 **park woojin:** are you free to work on the assignment today?

 

Jihoon lets out a noise halfway between a groan and a petulant whine, letting his phone fall to the mattress with a dull thud. He’d been hoping that Woojin’s illness, combined with the abnormality of their last meeting, would be enough to catch a free weekend, but evidently Woojin has other plans. Or rather, no plans at all, which would be why he’s resorting to texting Jihoon. With a deep inhale, he heaves himself to a sitting position, tucking his knees up to rest his phone lazily on top of them.

 

 **park jihoon:** oh, are u better? probably, what time? ^^

 **park woojin:** yes, 2?

 

The answer leaves him squinting at the screen, mind in a haze produced in equal parts by sleep and confusion. He’s brought back to Woojin’s offhandish explanation of his lack of free time in their first real conversation together, and the tone is eerily similar, except Woojin is asking for them to meet up at _two in the afternoon?_

 

He tries to play along, hoping that maybe Woojin will provide an explanation.

 

 **park jihoon:** i’m glad ur feeling better, & thats good w me!

 **park jihoon:** library again?

 **park woojin:** thanks, & yeah that’s good

 

For whatever reason, Woojin doesn’t seem to be giving any indication of _why_ — but Jihoon doesn’t want to be the person to ask why, especially not when he’d been so invasive the day before. He decides not to question it, taking the preferred option of falling back against his pillow, letting himself drift back into the calm of almost-sleep.

 

 

 

It’s almost 2:30pm when he manages to haul himself to the library. If it were anyone else, he’d almost feel bad for making them wait— but this is Woojin, the same Woojin who barely pays attention to his very existence when they’ve spent the larger part of the past two weeks stuck in the same room as one another.

 

As expected, he finds a familiar head of brown hair buried in books and paper, one that doesn’t lift even as he pulls out the other chair to sit down.

 

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he tries, voice soft.

 

“Don’t apologise,” Woojin says, and Jihoon almost thinks the other is _actually being considerate of him_ until he continues, “just be quiet and get something done.”

 

Jihoon closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath in as quietly as he can manage, and takes out his laptop.

 

It’s funny, almost, the fact that the only time he seems to get work done are these brief moments he spends with Woojin. There’s something about the lack of conversation, the unfamiliar territory (and maybe the fact that Woojin’s very presence is mildly threatening), that produces these fleeting waves of concentration, washing over him in a mass of webpages and papers. But all waves recede with time, and the distant call of hunger is all it takes for his attention to wane.

 

He peers over the top of his laptop screen for a moment, letting his eyes linger on the concentrated set of Woojin’s brow, becoming engrossed by the quick movements of the other’s hand as he writes. Woojin’s eyes flicker up for a moment, and despite his usual confidence, Jihoon finds himself averting his gaze, fingers playing absentmindedly with the edge of the space bar of his keyboard. When he looks up again, the same eyes are still trained on him.

 

“Have you eaten?” Jihoon asks, hoping that his voice comes out strong enough to mask his hesitancy.

 

Woojin shakes his head, leaning back in his chair with an indiscernible expression. “Are you hungry?”

 

“A bit,” he responds vaguely. “I might go get something to eat quickly.”

 

“Okay.” Woojin returns his attention to his work, and Jihoon’s insides whirl with an incomprehensible mixture of apprehension and disappointment.

 

He’s ready to leave, wallet in hand, when he swallows down his pride and asks, “Do you want to come with me?”

 

The response is blunt, and entirely unsurprising. “No thanks.”

 

“You should eat something,” he tries again, hands fidgeting with the edges of his wallet.

 

Woojin doesn’t look up, but Jihoon doesn’t miss the way his hand pauses in its usually fluid movements. He waits, watching carefully as the other continues to write, and it seems to be at the end of a sentence that Woojin finally sets the pen down. “Where are you going?”

 

“Uh,” he pauses to consider the question, until suddenly, a ploy comes to him. “I’m not sure, I’m actually not really familiar with the area, so…” he trails off, looking at the other with what he hopes translates to an expectant gaze.

 

“There’s a café down the road,” Woojin states with indifference. Jihoon doesn’t respond, staring out of one of the library’s tall windows to the street below. The rustle of paper brings a hint of a smile to his lips before Woojin even says, “I’ll take you.”

 

“Oh,” Jihoon turns, waiting a moment before starting to gather the rest of his belongings. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah, I should eat something anyway.”

 

“I told you,” Jihoon responds with a grin, walking quickly to catch up to the other’s stride.

 

Woojin refuses to look at him.

 

 

 

The café is all warm lights and homely décor, and it contrasts perfectly with the cold silence that hangs between them. Jihoon starts to believe that it’s not just the unfamiliarity of their usual meeting places that feeds into their lack of ability to hold a conversation with one another. He’s grateful that the shop’s walls are interesting enough, filled with odd photographs and prints in languages he’s not quite familiar with, because it gives him an excuse to feign interest in anything other than the unsettling lack of conversation.

 

“Oh,” Woojin says suddenly, setting down his pastry to rummage through his bag. Jihoon tries to turn casually to look at him, despite having definitely just jumped a little at the sound of Woojin’s voice. After a moment’s pause, he produces a neat stack of papers, holding them out, and Jihoon doesn’t bother to hide his perplexment at the gesture. “Your friend’s notes,” he adds.

 

Jihoon’s mouth falls open to an ‘o’ as he nods in understanding, taking the papers from the other’s grasp. “You’re already finished with them?”

 

“I didn’t have much else to do, I was sick.”

 

It occurs to him that the statement suggests Woojin didn’t go anywhere the day prior, and that implication is all it takes for his interest to be piqued once again. He hums in agreeance before inquiring as delicately as he can manage, “Didn’t you say you were usually busy during the day?”

 

“Yeah,” he nods. “Tutoring.”

 

“Every weekend? It must be hard.”

 

“Not really, I’m used to it by now.”

 

“Shouldn’t you…” Jihoon trails off, realising that there’s no subtle way to get the answer he desires. “Why aren’t you there now?”

 

Woojin shrugs. There’s the smallest hint of a smile in the rise of his cheekbones and the slight uptilt of the corners of his lips as he responds, “Yolo, am I right?”

 

Jihoon gapes at him in pure astonishment. He’d expected some vague non-answer, like all the other answers Woojin has ever provided— and this is exactly that, but worded in the most fundamentally non-Woojin, and quite frankly, _horrible_ , way. Jihoon sets down his sandwich in favour of resting his forehead in his hand, staring down at the table until he manages to compose himself enough to lift his head again. “What,” he tries to speak, but ends up laughing in disbelief. “What did you just say to me.”

 

“You heard me,” Woojin says, as contemptuous as ever, but the traces of laughter in his voice are far too obvious to go unnoticed.

 

“I can’t believe you just yolo’d me in the year 2017,” Jihoon murmurs, slumping back in his seat. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were intimidating.”

 

Woojin seems to consider the statement for a while. With a slight forward lean, and a sly smile on his face, he teases, “Aw, you were scared of me?”

 

“Wh— no,” Jihoon sits upright, “I didn’t say _I_ was scared of you.”

 

“Right,” Woojin replies sceptically, the smile not leaving his face.

 

“I’m being serious.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I hate you,” Jihoon mutters between bites of his food.

 

“Good to see you admit it,” Woojin states bluntly, and Jihoon almost blurts out a half-sincere apology at the lack of retaliation. “Same.”

 

He’s about to bite back, but falters in his attempt. “You’re— wait, as in you hate yourself or you hate me?”

 

“You,” Woojin affirms nonchalantly.

 

That’s enough confirmation for Jihoon to resume his accusing sandwich-pointing at the other. “You’re the one who keeps texting me at absurd hours of the morning, you don’t have any right to be saying you hate me.”

 

“For the project,” he specifies, recoiling back in poorly concealed disgust at Jihoon’s mannerisms.

 

“Both of us are doing the project,” Jihoon retorts. “I don’t text you.”

 

He’s not sure whether to read Woojin’s expression as amusement or distaste as he responds, “If I left it up to you this would be a mess.” Jihoon tries to get a word in, but Woojin continues, “Also, I seem to recall you coming to my _actual house_ two days ago.”

 

Jihoon tries to ignore the implications of the heat creeping up his neck, praying it doesn’t make its way into his voice. “You asked for notes,” he clarifies, “speaking of which, shouldn’t we go back at some point soon?”

 

“Look at you being suddenly studious,” Woojin teases.

 

Jihoon’s tone is too defensive to be considered entirely unbothered by the remark. “Shut up, you’ve finished your food. We can go back.”

 

 

 

No matter how much they snap at one another, it always ends in quiet acceptance at some point. The walk back to the library is no different, but in the quiet open air of the sidewalk, it’s hard not to overthink moments past. Discomfort aches low in his gut, winding its way through him, taking residence in his throat. If there’s one thing Jihoon values, it’s control, and he’s starting to feel like he’s losing sight of it more and more with every moment he spends with Woojin. It’s nothing big, just little slips of the tongue, moments where he finds his usual front of careful confidence wavering, and that’s all it takes for anxiety to set in. Concern takes over with the realisation that somehow, at some point, Woojin has started to chip away at his shield of practiced actions and premeditated words.

 

What’s more concerning is the fact that they part ways at the same time as the last week.

 

9pm.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ao3 user [redacted] puts kink jokes in a kdrama au, no one is surprised


	3. height

_act three: height_

 

 

 

With the ring of the school bell, Jihoon makes a resolution. He tells Jinyoung to go ahead and meet up with Hyeop for their break, promising to join them shortly, and waits for the younger to leave. It’s difficult, with all of the judging eyes of his lingering peers, but his target is just slightly out of their usual sphere of acquaintances, occupied with their phone at their desk. He takes purposeful steps further to the back of the class, calling out softly, “Woojin!”

 

Woojin looks up, and they lock eyes, except his gaze is full of none of the playful warmth Jihoon expects and is instead wholly distant, as if he’d never heard of a _Park Jihoon_ in his life. Jihoon comes to wonder how it’s possible for someone’s expression to retain such iciness when the rest of the classroom is illuminated by the golden hues of early Spring, but Woojin seems to be an outlier to most things Jihoon expects. Woojin doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t ignore Jihoon’s presence entirely. At this point Jihoon wishes he would, because the indifferent anticipation written on his features is becoming too much for him to handle.

 

“I just,” Jihoon starts, keeping his voice steady, “wanted to talk to you about part of the project.”

 

“You can text me,” Woojin answers curtly, his voice dripping with elitism.

 

Jihoon hesitates, locked in place; his only movement is that of his fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. He doesn’t want to back down, especially with the prying eyes of other students following the exchange (he knows they are _,_ no matter how much they pretend that they aren’t listening in), but he resigns himself to a measured, “Okay, I will.”

 

There isn’t really anything else he _can_ do without risking making the situation worse.

 

Steely eyes leave his, returning their attention to the phone. Jihoon takes that as his cue to walk out. His steps are slower than usual, and he’s not sure if it’s from the sluggishness of defeat or the tiny sliver of hope that Woojin will say something.

 

(He does hear a conversation, but it doesn’t quite fit the parameters of the _something_ he’d been hoping for.

 

“Who’s that, Woojin? Your new boy?”

 

“Are you kidding me? I’d rather have a punctured lung than waste my breath on him.”)

 

 

 

As emotionally stunted Jihoon thinks Jinyoung is, he proves to be more than observant, time and time again. He doesn’t return Jihoon’s smile as he joins them, and despite his purposeful decision to sit by Hyeop’s side, away from Jinyoung, he can feel the youngest watching him intently as he starts to eat. Hyeop immediately breaks into complaints about an upcoming math exam, and Jihoon hopes the relief that washes over him doesn’t make its way into his voice when he joins in.

 

“Seriously, they move through the topics too quickly for anyone other the top students to actually—”

 

“Since when do you care about exams?”

 

“—under… stand,” Jihoon’s voice wavers, and he comes to wonder at what point Jinyoung became so powerful that a single remark from him leaves him helpless. “I don’t,” he answers, which is _true,_ and all three of them know it, but at least two of them know it’s not just schoolwork that Jinyoung is referring to.

 

“Yeah, don’t get all weird on us,” Hyeop teases. “Next minute you’ll be telling us you want to get into one of the ‘sky’ universities.”

 

Jihoon makes a fake gagging noise in response, which might be a little too convincing judging by the way Hyeop whips his head to look at him. The unadulterated concern in the other’s expression is enough to make Jihoon break into laughter. He pats Hyeop’s shoulder gently as he clarifies, “I was joking, and I won’t.”

 

Hyeop narrows his eyes. “I’m holding you to that,” he says. “You better not leave me.”

 

“I would never,” Jihoon sings sweetly. “We’re going to be successful together, right?”

 

“Right,” Hyeop echoes.

 

As optimistic as Hyeop is, Jihoon’s not sure that either of them believe it.

 

 

 

Jinyoung is not only observant, but persistent, too. It’s barely coming to the end of the school day when he leans in closer to Jihoon’s desk, ignoring the closing requests of their teacher in the background, and asks, “Are you busy this afternoon?”

 

“Why?” Jihoon answers, matching his gaze with equal curiosity.

 

“Nothing in particular,” Jinyoung shrugs. “I just don’t have anything to do.”

 

“We’re not wasting the afternoon at a PC café,” he objects in advance. “I don’t have enough money to keep paying for the both of us.”

 

“I didn’t say anything.” Jinyoung leans back into his chair, feigning interest in the droning voice of their teacher. “I just wanted to do something.”

 

Jihoon’s eyes narrow in distrust, even though he knows Jinyoung isn’t looking at him. But really, he would be lying if he said he didn’t want something to distract him from the earlier events of the day, and Bae Jinyoung is the perfect distraction. “Okay, fine,” he concedes, “but we’re going to mine, it’s further away from that money-vacuum.”

 

The split second of distressed side-eye he receives from Jinyoung is enough to bring a smile to his face, shoulders shaking in a short bout of repressed laughter. “So much for _I didn’t say anything_ , Jinyoung.”

 

“I didn’t,” he maintains, although the last part is cut off by the ring of the bell, and the hurried rustle of students in their anticipation to leave.

 

“Did you say something?” Jihoon teases, standing up to gather his belongings. “I couldn’t hear... you.” His voice doesn’t come out quite right at the end, tone becoming stilted when he looks up from his desk and, in place of the person he expects, promptly makes direct eye contact with a pair of sharp eyes. The moment of contact is brief, but no less overpowering, as Woojin is pulled along by the swarm of departing students.

 

“Let’s go,” the voice next to him says, and Jihoon complies.

 

 

 

It’s always been in seclusion, in the moments where it’s just the two of them, that Jinyoung talks the most. That holds true in the exact moment that Jihoon closes his bedroom door, when Jinyoung immediately questions, “What happened?”

 

“What?” Jihoon responds, aiming for innocent naivety and ending up somewhere in the realm of entirely unconvincing expressions and too-high vocal tone.

 

“Don’t pretend.” Jinyoung punctuates the statement with a slight roll of his eyes, continuing, “Something’s wrong.”

 

With a resigned sigh, Jihoon makes his way to his bed, clambering over his masses of pillows and plushies to take his place by Jinyoung’s side. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he says, with the knowledge that he very well could find a _plethora_ of words to explain just how much of an asshole Park Woojin is, how much he wishes they never met, and how much he wishes he could have suppressed that tiny fragment of hope that wormed its way through his defences before it even appeared. But neither of them are as good at genuine expression as they are with internal thoughts, and, as much as he values Jinyoung’s presence, he’s not comfortable with the thought of gushing out his innermost feelings at the best of times.

 

Which is why it scares him when Jinyoung responds, “Try.”

 

“Uh,” he starts, taking a moment to figure out how he’s going to approach this. “My project partner, Woojin,” he tries, to which Jinyoung sends him a look that reads something along the lines of _I know, you idiot, tell me about you, not him._ “I just don’t understand. It seemed like everything was fine, we were getting along fine, but then I try to speak to him a day later and he’s an entirely different person.” Jinyoung hums in acknowledgement. “He just acts so _indifferent_ to me at times, like he’s looking down on me, but then he goes and does these little things that have me questioning whether my judgment of him is all wrong.”

 

It’s comforting enough when Jinyoung sits in contemplative silence, his features soft with quiet consideration as he thinks of what to say. He settles simply on, “I’m sorry,” voice low as he speaks. “I don’t have any answers, but you don’t deserve that.”

 

Jihoon hums in agreeance, refusing to speak out of fear that he’ll reveal too much. It doesn’t matter though, because Jinyoung holds his arms out in a silent invitation, and Jihoon takes the offer in equal wordlessness. He takes comfort in the way lithe arms envelop him, pulling him into a tight embrace, in the way his hand finds a place to rest against the other’s stomach, fingers grasping lightly at the fabric of their school vest, and most of all, in the hesitant, almost shy, press of lips against his hair.

 

It only feels natural for him to give something in return, but he can’t quite reach the top of Jinyoung’s head from his position cradled against his chest. So, he lifts his head, taking a moment to admire the delicate curves of the other’s lips before he leans in to capture them in a brief, chaste kiss. They don’t need words, but that doesn’t stop Jihoon from whispering a soft, “Thank you,” against Jinyoung’s lips.

 

It’s fundamentally _Jihoon,_ the way he only scratches the surface, only revealing enough to seem convincing when _Woojin’s arrogance isn’t really the part that bothers you at all, is it?_

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

The ring of the school bell seems to signify something to Jinyoung, Jihoon thinks. It’s cute, actually, the way Jinyoung insists on lingering in the hallway after the school day has finished, fingers finding his, lips moving in a conversation that’s heading nowhere.

 

(Occasionally, if they’re confident in the emptiness of the halls, not in conversation at all).

 

It’s not the words they share that are important, consisting of idle complaints and uninteresting stories, but the opportunity for them to show affection towards one another, even if brief, inside the school walls.

 

It’s usually restricted to the quietest parts of the day, where the stampedes of students fade out into the streets below, too busy with the thoughts of the future to take notice of the two of them staying behind to relish the present.

 

But it seems to be Jinyoung’s knowledge of Jihoon’s obligation to leave for the theatre club that drives him to reach for his hand a little earlier that day, to talk a little too closely to his ear when the murmurs of students still hang in the air, and it’s that very motion that changes everything.

 

Jinyoung is in the middle of whispering something to him when a low, yet piercing call of, “When will they stop with the PDA, Jesus Christ,” overpowers the soft tones of the other’s voice. It’s almost unsurprising when Jihoon realises he recognises both of the voices flooding his hearing, not just Jinyoung’s, and _yep, that’s definitely Park Woojin walking past._

 

It’s even less surprising when he tunes in to the other murmurs, voices just slightly too loud to be purely for their friends’ ears, and finds within them remarks he'd rather have never heard.

 

None of that stops Jinyoung from gripping his hand a little tighter, from standing solidly in place even as Jihoon mutters, “I should probably get going,” nor does it stop him from keeping Jihoon’s fingers firmly intertwined with his for the entire length of the walk to the classroom used for the club’s meetings.

 

He leaves Jinyoung with a quiet, reluctant, “Thanks,” but stops dead in his tracks when he catches sight of the scene inside the classroom. He ducks to the side of the doorframe, pondering over _what the hell he should do,_ and decides on the option of leaning against the wall, phone out as if he’s not paying attention, and listening.

 

“—know what’s gotten into you, seriously,” the voice says, pitch high with exasperation. “I know you’re not as in touch with your feelings as you used to be, and I don’t know what’s happened, but at this point you’re just being an ass.” The noise halts, silence lingering in the air as if in expectation of a reply, which clearly isn’t received. “He didn’t do anything to you, and _you,”_ they emphasise, “ _you_ can’t keep going on like this, because you’re just going to keep bottling things up and then get defensive every time someone tries to hel—”

 

“Okay, I get it,” the other says, not bothering to conceal the irritation in their voice.

 

“You better,” comes the reply. There’s a pause before they continue. “I appreciate you a lot, you know, but that only applies when you’re not being a terrible person.”

 

“Do you ever think I’m _not_ being a terrible person?”

 

The response is teasing, haughty, almost. “No, you’re generally quite horrible. But there’s a first time for everything, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“Just— jokes aside, Woojin, please stop giving in to outside pressure.”

 

There’s a moment of pause before Jihoon hears a quiet, “i’ll come pick you up when it’s done,” and the shuffle of approaching footsteps.

 

Panic sets in, the erratic rhythm of his heart betraying the stillness of his body. But if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s acting like everything is fine, and if there’s anything he’s learned from Jinyoung, it’s to stand his ground.

 

So he lifts himself off the wall, tucks his phone into his pocket, and walks straight through the door— directly into a wall of school uniform and solid chest muscle.

 

“O-oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Jihoon stutters out, feigning obliviousness. He takes a step back to take in the expression on the other’s face, their features morphed into a poorly concealed mixture of shock and frustration. He revels in their increasingly obvious bitterness, enjoying the red that flushes over tanned skin a little too much, as he blatantly blinks up at them to remark, “I should really be more careful, sorry.”

 

Woojin looks halfway between deciding whether to jump out of the window, or to slam Jihoon’s head against it. He’s stuck in place, hands hovering, recoiling away as if Jihoon’s the sole carrier of a disease he _really_ doesn’t want to catch. The imaginary disease must be airborne, too, considering Woojin barely so much as _breathes_ in his direction before wordlessly pushing past him, escaping through the same doorway Jihoon had stumbled through just moments before.

 

With a vaguely puzzled smile, he makes his way to Daehwi. “You know Woojin?” he asks, taking his usual seat beside the younger, albeit a bit too early to be entirely _usual._

 

“Yeah! we’re actually family friends,” Daehwi replies, tone light. “You know him too?”

 

Jihoon has a slight hunch that Daehwi might already know the answer to that question, but he figures there’s no harm in playing along. “Yeah,” he responds. “I know him.”

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

He wakes up under the blanket of darkness, legs restless, hands tingling with anticipation. He takes it slow, slowing his breathing, closing his eyes, tensing and relaxing his limbs in isolation in an attempt to calm himself down enough to drift back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. He finds himself staring into the black void that is his room, and it stares back at him with such relentlessness that he needs to avert his eyes.

 

He grasps blindly as his side until his hands find cool plastic, and with the click of his phone unlocking comes the much-needed comfort of light, even if entirely artificial.

 

_1:30am._

 

Jihoon hates the fact that he wants to check, hates that he wants to see if maybe he woke up from the vibration of his phone without noticing— but he does it anyway, reluctantly scrolling through his notifications, the scrolling motion of his thumb growing slower with each message that isn’t the one he’s looking for.

 

The end comes with a mocking, _‘system update ready to install’_ , and at that point, Jihoon is ready to throw either his phone or his own face at the bedroom wall.

 

He drops his phone back onto the mattress, and realises that the motion could suggest that he’s chosen the option of throwing his own face at the wall. The thought is much less surprising than it should be— he’s pretty sure he’s developed some kind of masochistic tendencies at this point, especially considering the fact that he’s currently longing for the turmoil and uncertainty of weeks past.

 

He _knows_ that there’s something there, that Woojin has some kind of feelings for him. That much becomes obvious when someone spends entire weekends with you, starts having moments of vulnerability around you, starts making _kink jokes with you, for god’s sake._ He just can’t figure out what’s causing this rift, or how to close the distance between them.

 

(In more ways than one, maybe.)

 

He’s lost somewhere between finding it funny and sad that despite his years of experience under the hot lights of the stage, of not backing down under the unrelenting stare of the camera lens, and of making a fool of himself in front of his peers, he can’t muster up the courage to send a single message.

 

 

 

It might be tipping over into the realm of more sad than funny when he finds himself waking up with arms clinging tightly to one of his largest plushies, left leg hooked over its— body?

 

 _I’ve officially gone insane at nineteen years old,_ Jihoon muses as he stares directly into the unmoving, stitched-on smile of his newest partner. _It’s been a good run, goodbye world._

 

That must set the tone for the morning, because (no matter how ridiculous he knows this is, he’s _nineteen years old_ ) he spends what is probably much too long moping amongst strewn sheets, squeezing the toy in his arms a little too hard for him not to consider the possibly that he’s _actually angry_ right now. Not the kind of angry where someone else is around to see, performed out of necessity to feign empathy— there’s no one around to see it, and he’s fucking _angry_ at Park Woojin.

 

He doesn’t let go of the rabbit even as he reaches for his phone, rolling onto his stomach to rest his full weight on top of it. When he rests his chin against its head, he catches himself actually worrying for a second that he’s suffocating an inanimate object, and that’s the point where he pauses in utter disbelief at his own brain. It’s hard not to find his own internal workings completely illogical when he’s now aware of the prominent disconnect between his tendency to revert back to entirely nonsensical, childish behaviours, and the not-so-passive aggressive message he’s furiously typing.

 

 **park jihoon:** so are we just not doing the project now

 **park jihoon:** are u really that disgusted by my existence that you’d risk getting a lower grade to avoid me

 

The reply takes a while, Woojin probably already busy with _whatever the fuck the top students do on a Saturday morning_ , and Jihoon tries to distract himself with trivial news stories. It’s difficult to find sympathy for the hundreds of articles published on trifling celebrity woes when he’s sitting here with his own, real-world problems. After one too many ventures into the seas of over-dramatic comments, he gives up, dropping his head to fall against that of his rabbit to pointedly stare holes into his wall.

_But they're people too. Real people with real problems, and no amount of public attention changes that._

 

He finds himself wondering what it’d be like to have a plethora of fans, an army of people ready to come to defend your every word; that’s what he needs right now, because apparently, he can’t send a single defensive message without growing increasingly anxious with every second that passes without a response.

 

He’d like to be hopeful, and tell himself  _that will be you one day, Jihoon,_ but it’s hard to be optimistic when the same few faces are plastered across every form of media, leaving no room for the petty dreams of thousands of average high school students.

 

There’s no room for him, either, and he knows it— no matter how meticulously he practices, no matter how much he builds up a solid wall of practical experience to back him up, all it takes is a single stroke of luck.

 

If his start to the school year has been indicative of anything, it’s that Jihoon isn’t a very lucky person.

 

He’s just starting to consider the possibility that maybe, in some way, it’s his own insecurity that’s leading him to detest Woojin’s blatant displays of intellectual overconfidence— he contemplates the thought right as his phone vibrates with two new messages and _no, it’s definitely just because Woojin’s a piece of shit._

 

 **park woojin:** somehow i don’t think you’re the main contributing factor to our grade

 **park woojin:** and we can do everything over the internet. we’re living in the digital age, jihoon

 

It’s not even the blatant insult that bothers him, nor is it the bizarrely fake-deep statement at the end— if anything, he finds a kind of malignant amusement in how ridiculous Woojin sounds when filtered through the anonymity of text. Of all things, it’s the passive aggressive use of his name. He types out a response of _oh, i thought u didn’t want to waste ur breath on me, whats with the unnecessary use of my name then?_ but he deletes it a second later once he realises just how juvenile it sounds.

 

 **park jihoon:** ok, i’ll still do my part ^^

 

Unsurprisingly, Woojin doesn’t reply. Even less surprisingly, Jihoon does not, in fact, do his part. Maybe it’s childish, but it’s not entirely Woojin’s blatant disrespect for him that makes it difficult for him to find motivation for the project.

 

It’s more the fact that, without Woojin, there is no motivation.

 

Instead he finds comfort in a different string of texts, one of few words but a lot of underlying affection. He finds comfort in the sound of a distant yet distinctly polite greeting, the opening and closing of his bedroom door, and the dip of his mattress with a weight he’s grown to find familiar.

 

It’s much more satisfying to wrap your arms around an actual person, he thinks.

 


	4. falling

_ act four: falling _

 

 

 

The post-school sun dripping through the window with each gentle sway of the curtains still isn’t enough to offset the oddly cold temperature, but maybe the arms around him are.

 

Maybe the wandering hands on his skin are enough; he leans into the touch, trying to find the warmth, hoping it will sink into him. It’s not quite enough, but maybe it’s the trail of kisses left along his jawline that’ll bring the feeling of spring, he thinks. He drags his fingertips lightly across lean back muscle, goosebumps spreading across the skin, and tries to envision each too-light press of lips as little butterflies, because that’s something that should conjure up thoughts of fluttering hearts and golden sunshine, right?

 

He’s still cold.

 

He’s still cold, even when he finds himself tucked into Jinyoung’s side, a blanket draped loosely over the two of them, his head nestled against the younger’s chest. It’s quiet, save for the low hums of the street outside, and it should be peaceful, but there’s this deafening restlessness in his mind that he can’t quite pacify. He seeks solace in the motion of fingers carding through his hair, the touch gentle and slow. It’s nice, to say the least, but Jihoon can’t shake the feeling that the gesture is expressive of the wrong type of sentiment, the kind of pitying consolation a mother would give their child after a particularly bad nightmare— it’s affectionate, to the point where Jihoon might place it somewhere within the broad realm of the word love, but it’s  _ off. _

 

Jinyoung is many things, but he isn’t dumb. Jihoon can tell he knows something isn’t quite right, and Jihoon knows it’s not right, too. But that doesn’t stop him from staying quiet, burying his face into the other’s chest, and praying that he can just stay like this, away from the world, away from his own jumbled thoughts.

 

It’s Jinyoung who breaks the silence. “Hey.” Jihoon gives a quiet, noncommittal hum, fingers clinging loosely to the light fabric of Jinyoung’s shirt. He finds himself clinging tighter when the voice above him murmurs, “I think this needs to stop.” Jinyoung speaks slowly, carefully, as if his words carry the power to tip over the balance of their relationship. If Jihoon could visualise a physical manifestation of it, it would probably be something akin to the image of himself, perched single-footed atop of a high, yet dangerously thin, pile of garbage. He’s not quite sure what kind of garbage ( _ maybe stacks of papers on South Korea’s involvement in the United Nations would be fitting,  _ he tells himself), but definitely garbage nonetheless. Maybe the surrounding garbage on the faraway ground could be on fire, too. A garbage fire, you could say.

 

He doesn’t want to move, no matter how much he knows he should at least give a nod of acknowledgement, because with any slight movement he feels as though he could send himself toppling down into the depths below.

 

When Jinyoung whispers against his hair, “It's Woojin, isn't it,” Jihoon can feel himself falling.

 

He mumbles, “No,” into Jinyoung’s chest, defiant, and lifts himself up to look Jinyoung in the eye. “No,” he repeats, mind racing too fast for him to conjure up any other words, and he’s pretty sure his face is morphed into some kind of expression of distress and desperation, but at this point he can’t even tell whether it’s a genuine or a practiced expression— he’s thinking too hard about it, unsure if he’s remembering the right set of his brow, the right amount of downturn to his lips; a face that he’s committed to memory in a moment of pain past and set aside for later.

 

Jinyoung looks confused,  _ scared _ , almost, behind his usual mask of impassivity, but he’s able to control it well enough to just shake his head with a restrained expression. He reaches his arms out again, one hand bracing the back of Jihoon’s head, and pulls him down again.

 

He’s not usually one for excess words, but Jihoon can’t help the stubborn strings of, “You’re wrong,” and, “Please stay with me,” that he mumbles into the other’s embrace.

 

Jinyoung resumes stroking gently over his hair, but it’s not quite as comforting any more, especially not when he states bluntly, “I’m not wrong.”

 

Silence falls between them, mostly out of Jihoon’s inability to find his voice again. It comes back to him eventually, taking the form of a question voiced barely above a whisper. “Can you help me figure this out?”

 

“Of course,” Jinyoung responds.

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

It’s easy to ignore Woojin’s existence in school, thanks to their classroom seating arrangements and, moreover, Jihoon’s general inability to pay attention to anything within school hours.

 

It’s not as easy to ignore the fact that he wakes up at 1:30am on a Saturday again. He immediately brings his arms up to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes, letting out a quiet groan. He rolls over, burying his face into his pillow, hoping that maybe this time he’ll manage to suffocate himself to death and not have to deal with the implications of his own body clock.

 

He does not, in fact, manage to suffocate, and he curses the fluffiness of his pillow because  _ surely, if it were a little more dense _ —

 

Jihoon thinks he might actually manage to pass out from a lack of oxygen; not from his poor attempt at doing it himself, but from the sharp vibration from beside him. He lifts his head gingerly, right hand patting at the empty space beside him until he finds his phone. It takes him a few attempts to get past his lockscreen, hands trembling just as much as his heart, but he manages it eventually.

 

**park woojin:** are you going to send your part, or do i have to do everything for you?

 

He should be annoyed, the message clearly intended to be insulting, but it’s something.

 

And if there’s one thing he’s learned about Woojin in the past three weeks, it’s that even the smallest  _ somethings  _ mean a whole lot more.

 

**park jihoon:** i mean no, i dont have anything to send

**park jihoon:** turns out im incapable of concentrating if im not at a library

 

_ If I’m not with you. _

 

**park woojin:** i’ll do it, don’t bother

 

It’s not easy for him to do it, and it might just be the vague fog of sleepiness starting to cloud his mind, but Jihoon figures there’s no better time to at least try.

 

**park jihoon:** the presentation is on monday, u have enough on ur hands already

**park jihoon:** and we need to practice actually presenting

**park jihoon:** together

**park woojin:** i’m capable of carrying both of our marks, thanks

**park woojin:** and what do you expect to do, practice out loud in a library?

**park jihoon has shared his location.**

 

The indicator that Woojin is typing appears, but whatever reply he was attempting to create never comes.

 

**park jihoon:** 5?

**park woojin:** what in the entirety of this conversation makes you think i’d want to go to your house

 

Jihoon lets out a sigh, pushing his hair away to rest his forehead in his hand.

 

**park jihoon:** maybe the fact that u keep responding to me, at 2 in the morning

**park jihoon:** and

**park woojin:** it’s not 2 yet

**park jihoon:** will u ever let me finish

**park woojin:** hm

**park jihoon:** anyway

**park jihoon:** dont come if u still hate me for no reason! ^^

 

He puts his phone on silent immediately after he hits send, locks his phone, and slides it far enough away from his bed that the weight of his drowsiness is enough to overpower his desire to check the response.

 

If there even is one.

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

Jihoon starts to think that maybe his capacity for procrastination is taking over his life when he finds himself unable to even check his phone. Gratuitous amounts of phone-checking has proven to be one of his major vices, and yet he’s starting to put off even that, making a point to look up from his laptop screen every now and then to stare disapprovingly at the object still sitting in its arbitrary position in the middle of his carpeted floor.

 

It’s only at the point when he ventures out of his room to get food, and finds himself standing in the middle of his room, plate in hand, that his curiosity starts to take over the pit of dread in his stomach. Curiosity doesn’t quite seem to succeed in its coup, though; that much is obvious when he finds himself poking gingerly at his phone with his big toe, refusing to take to easier option of just putting down his food and leaning down to pick it up. He stumbles, hopping one-footed, as he attempts to manoeuvre the phone into flipping over without also dropping any of his lunch.

 

(It still counts as lunch even if it’s almost 4pm, okay. It’s still his second meal.)

 

He succeeds eventually in his odd venture, his phone landing screen-up with a dull thud, and he’s satisfied with his apparent foot-dexterity— except it’s taken him long enough that now he’s not sure that he wants to check his notifications at all. It’s not like Woojin would have replied,  _ what is there to even reply to that message with, anyway,  _ and he’s sure as hell by now that he’s succeeded in leaving zero possibility for any kind of reconciliation between the two of him, namely due to his apparent inability to control his emotions within the realm of anything even remotely relating to Park Woojin.

 

Jihoon decides to shove the curiosity to the back of his mind, way back, past even his knowledge of deadlines for homework he is definitely going to complete and is not at all ignoring. He tries to take a step towards his desk, and promptly loses his balance, stumbling back in an attempt to catch himself and his food.

 

His phone screen lights up, the home button having been attacked by the ball of his foot, and Jihoon thinks he might drop his lunch for an entirely different reason.

 

**park woojin:** seriously, jihoon? i don’t have...

 

Jihoon hates his past self for setting the options of his phone to show previews of messages. They never seem to show anything other than vague snippets that don’t tell you anything at all, that leave you guessing, forming possible continuations of the sentence in your mind for minutes on end.

 

That’s exactly what Jihoon does, kicking his phone under his bed probably a little too harshly, and finally sitting down to eat.

 

_ seriously, jihoon? i don’t have... _

 

_ seriously, jihoon? i don’t have time to be visiting your house _

 

_ seriously, jihoon? i don’t have to pretend to like you just because we’ve been paired together for a project _

 

_ seriously, jihoon? i don’t have a single caring bone in my body and love to hurt people for no reason other than the fact that i think i’m better than everyone due to my academic abilities! see you xxx _

 

Jihoon thinks the last one is the most accurate.

 

 

 

It turns out that the last text he conjured up was, in fact, accurate— just not quite in the way he expected.

 

It’s not even 5pm when Jihoon hears a knock at his door, the noise muffled through his headphones but still jarring enough to make him jump out of his skin. He stares at the door, unmoving in trepidation, and it cracks open to reveal the curious face of his mother.

 

“Honey, there’s someone here for you? It’s, uh,” she shows a puzzled, yet knowing, smile, “not Jinyoung?”

 

“Oh,” is all Jihoon manages to utter with how dry his throat is.

 

“Were you expecting someone?”

 

“Uh,” he pauses, because  _ no, I was not expecting Park Woojin to show up at my house, why is he actually here,  _ but responds with a mildly unconvincing, “yes?”

 

Her tone still sounds doubtful when she asks, “Do you want me to let him up?”

 

“Yeah,” Jihoon nods, despite the overwhelming urge to go that little bit further and slam his head into his desk, “thank you.”

 

He should be nervous, his heart rate should be quickening, hands should be trembling, but there’s nothing but a vague (and highly unwarranted) calm that floods his mind as the second knock at his door comes. He heaves himself out of his seat to open his bedroom door, and— oh. Jihoon wonders at what point Woojin learned how to be a thief, because it seems as though he’s managed to steal both Jihoon’s attention and all of the oxygen in the room simultaneously. That might have more than a little bit to do with the fact that he’s never seen Woojin in anything other than a school uniform or a loose t-shirt, and he wasn’t aware of the fact that apparently, Park Woojin somehow has very toned arms that look very appealing in a tank top despite spending the majority of his life buried in books.  _ Maybe the books are exactly it,  _ he thinks,  _ maybe I need to start carrying textbooks aroun _ —

 

“Hello?”

 

Woojin’s voice is piercing enough to snap him at least partially out of his daze, enough so that Jihoon can progress from blankly staring to blinking up at him. He swallows thickly, and he swears it’s loud enough that Woojin could probably hear it, but continues with a confident enough, “Hey,” pulling the door open in an inviting gesture.

 

Woojin doesn’t take a step in immediately, seeming to hesitate for a second. It brings to mind Jihoon’s own hesitance two weeks ago, stood fixed at the end of Woojin’s driveway, and moreso, Woojin’s insistence on the two of them studying in uncomfortable wooden chairs, in quite possibly the most exposed space in his entire house. In contrast, his bedroom seems as enclosed as a shipping container, and Jihoon comes to realise that this might actually be something very foreign to his project partner. He almost wants to say something, wants to suggest that  _ hey, maybe we should go to the library after all,  _ but Woojin is already making the effort to take a few tense steps in.

 

The lack of comments from Woojin are not helping the unease that hangs in the air, so Jihoon offers, “Sorry, my desk is small. You can take it, I’ll sit on my bed.” It feels wrong to avoid the obvious tension between them, but he supposes that offering to sit separately is the best way to bring it up without  _ really  _ bringing it up.

 

“Okay,” Woojin responds, not even bothering to refuse the offer out of politeness. Jihoon turns to climb onto his bed, crossing his legs, and he’s just pulling his laptop towards him when Woojin pipes up, “You have a  _ glittery pink fidget spinner  _ on your desk?”

 

It’s been about 40 seconds since Woojin stepped foot in his room, and Jihoon is about ready to throw him out.

 

(Except he wouldn’t, if only for the sight of his arms.)

 

“Yes,” Jihoon states matter-of-factly. “I like the colour pink.”

 

“The colour is not the issue here.”

 

“I think  _ you’re  _ the issue here,” Jihoon responds, opening his laptop. He wants to continue,  _ why are you even here, anyway,  _ but there’s something almost comfortable about the way they settle back into the exchange of biting remarks, as if nothing had ever happened, and he doesn’t want to turn the atmosphere cold.

 

Woojin doesn’t even bat an eye, leaning down to pull some papers from his bag as he replies, “I might be, but I’m also the one who wrote up an entire outline for our presentation.” He throws a stapled set of papers in Jihoon’s direction, and no matter how coordinated Jihoon likes to believe he is, he fumbles in his attempt to catch them.

 

Jihoon never knew a smile could be so condescending until Woojin’s lips curl upwards. “What,” he says bluntly, because he’s tired of this, tired of Woojin looking down at him at every tiny opportunity, and there’s nothing that he wants more than to wipe the smile of off his face.

 

“Nothing,” Woojin says with confidence, his expression returning to its usual impassivity. “Just read over it so we can get something done, thanks.”

 

“Yeah, no problem,” Jihoon says under his breath as he scans his eyes over the first page. It’s hard for him to concentrate on reading through the outline, in part due to Woojin’s use of unfamiliar shorthand that he must assume Jihoon can decipher (spoiler alert, he can’t), but also because of his apparent inability to stop his eyes from wandering off the page and onto the figure seated at his desk.

 

He’s on page three of the outline, and probably glance three hundred at Woojin, when they match gazes. “Are you finished reading?” Woojin questions, clearly finished revising over the copy in his hands.

 

Jihoon tries to flip back to the front page as discreetly as possible as he blatantly lies, “Yes,” because he would sooner jump out his bedroom window than admit that he was too busy being distracted by Woojin to read.

 

There’s a moment's pause before Woojin seems to accept that as a genuine answer. “Okay,” he mumbles absentmindedly, flipping through the pages to check over something once more before he rolls the chair closer to the bed. “You have the presentation, right?”

 

Jihoon tries very hard to ignore the heat prickling at the back of his neck as he answers, “Yeah, I finished that.”

 

He also makes a point to ignore the remark of, “Surprising,” that comes from Woojin’s lips. Instead he keeps his jaw set tightly, reuniting himself with the self-control he seems to lose so often in the spaces he shares with Woojin, and opens the presentation in silence. He turns the laptop to a point to where both of them have a clear view of the screen, but Woojin asserts, “You do the intro, it’s  the easiest part.”

 

He’s determined to make an effort, both in achieving a decent grade for this assessment and in not being baited in by Woojin’s patronising comments, so he reconciles himself to the idea of introducing a presentation that he has definitely not read over. “Okay,” he responds, eyes staring into the page without taking anything in. It’s already difficult for him to concentrate, and it doesn’t help when he can  _ feel  _ Woojin watching him, scrutinising every last movement he makes. It’s an interesting contrast to the earliest days of their relationship, Jihoon thinks, the days where Woojin showed such disinterest that Jihoon was fairly certain he could have started performing a dramatic monologue in the middle of the library without Woojin so much as glancing at him. Now that disinterest is gone, if anything, he’s a little  _ too  _ interested, and Jihoon isn’t quite sure that he can deal with it. “The,” he starts, and realises that is not at all an appropriate start to the sentence he needs to get out, “South Korea’s—”

 

“The South Korea?” Woojin echoes.

 

“Yep,” Jihoon responds without pause, and, for no other reason than the satisfaction he gets from seeing the other grow frustrated, repeats, “the South Korea’s involvement—”

 

“Can you please take this at least a little bit seriously,” Woojin interjects bluntly.

 

“Okay,” Jihoon complies, despite the temptation to continue if only for the sight of Woojin’s jaw setting in annoyance. “South Korea’s involvement in the United Nations has been successful to varying extents.” He looks up from the page to sneak a quick glance at Woojin, and immediately wishes he didn’t, because his expression is entirely unresponsive.

 

Woojin looks him directly in the eye, and remarks, “If you’re an actor, then why is your speech so stilted?”

 

Heat rushes to his face, cheeks tinted a red of not only embarrassment, but  _ anger _ — he can tolerate many things, can put on a smile in the face of almost any remark, but if there’s one thing he won’t accept, it’s comments on his acting from someone who can barely speak in full sentences, let alone  _ act.  _ He can’t even meet Woojin’s gaze, and he’s internally berating himself for his inability to reinforce any kind of show of genuine emotion from himself, but with eyes trained to the floor he manages to mutter scathingly, “Why is your entire personality so stilted? Too busy wasting your life studying to have actual feelings?”

 

Woojin keeps quiet, and Jihoon is glad, because he wants to keep going, rapidly descending into the cesspool of resentment built up from the past four weeks, and he needs to get it out, needs to tell Woojin just how much he’s hurt him; he gathers the resolve to look up at him, and—

 

Oh god, Woojin actually looks—  _ hurt? _

 

It’s all kinds of wrong, on so many different levels, but there’s something captivating about the way Woojin’s guise of indifference wavers. To anyone else, the differences would probably be imperceptible— but Jihoon can see it, he recognises the softening of his gaze, the light of the laptop screen reflecting a little too clearly in his eyes for them not to be watery, the part of his lips as he takes a breath in that sounds slightly too shaky to Jihoon’s ears.

 

If there’s one thing Jihoon has learned about himself in the first few weeks of the school year, it’s that he might have questionable morals, but that doesn’t stop the guilt settling in with the realisation that he’s just shattered someone’s resolve in the space of two sentences. It comes as little surprise when his immediate reaction is to stumble out, “I’m sorry, I’m- I shouldn’t have gone that far,” his hands gripping onto the hem of his shirt out of nervousness.

 

Woojin shakes his head rigidly, quickly, and Jihoon knows it’s a sure sign that he can’t trust himself to speak. But Woojin is obstinate, and he proves it once again when he forces out, “It’s true though, right?”

 

“N—” he stops himself, because  _ yes, it is true, Jihoon, and you need to stop playing along to please everyone.  _ But there’s something different about the way Woojin says it— it’s not a decoy of self-hatred, intended to lure in someone like Jihoon who will happily comply with a chirpy,  _ no, you’re perfect the way you are!  _ It’s entirely genuine, too self-aware and clumsily handled to be anything but genuine, and it’s that knowledge that drives Jihoon to ask, “Why do you do it?”

 

The question seems to catch Woojin off guard, as if no one’s ever asked him  _ why  _ he strives so hard for top academic rankings,  _ why  _ he’s overconfident to the point of looking down on anyone he  deems as being not being on his level, and Jihoon realises that he, too, never took the time to ask  _ why. _

 

“I’m sorry.” Woojin still avoids his gaze.

 

“I don’t need you to apologise,” Jihoon explains, trying to keep his tone gentle and even. “I just want to know why.”

 

“It doesn’t help,” Woojin responds, lifting a foot onto the chair to sit with a knee tucked close to him. “The reason doesn’t matter, it’s still wrong.”

 

“I know it is,” Jihoon says, not bothering to hide his exasperation any longer. “I’m still going to be annoyed at you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to understand, Woojin.”

 

“The world has instilled a fear in me that I’ll never find a job unless I study to the point of near death, my only self-worth comes from my academic ranking, and I feel like I’m just a vehicle to glorify the family name,” Woojin spits out, voice seething with resentment. “There, are you happy?”

 

It takes a while for the realisation to settle in, the sharp tone of Woojin’s words clouding his ability to comprehend them for a moment. But when it does, Jihoon responds with a soft smile, “Yeah.”

 

Woojin looks nothing short of baffled at the response. “What?”

 

“You asked if I was happy,” Jihoon fixes his gaze to his hands, suddenly taking great interest in his fingernails. “The answer is yes.” It’s strange to think that he’d never considered that maybe it wasn’t entirely Woojin’s decision to be like this, maybe he doesn’t  _ want  _ to spend the entirety of his youth in afterschool classes and weekend tutoring, and suddenly a lot of things make much more sense. His defensiveness in their first encounter, the texts in the deepest hours of the night, the lack of his parents’ presence, his insistence on studying out in the open, as if someone was there to watch—

 

There’s still something that doesn’t quite fit.

 

“Woojin,” Jihoon speaks up again, turning slowly to look at him. “Why did you brush me off at school?”

 

There’s a moment of pause, one where Woojin looks as though he’s considering whether or not to answer. “That weekend,” Woojin starts tentatively, “the one where we met up in the day?”

 

“Yeah,” Jihoon answers in encouragement, even though it’s not really a question.

 

“I didn’t,” he looks around the room, as if he’s searching for the right words, “I don’t know how, but my parents figured out that I didn’t go where I was meant to.” Jihoon nods, listening carefully, afraid to say a single word in case he disrupts whatever it is that’s making Woojin comfortable enough to talk. “It wasn’t the best,” Woojin laughs bitterly, “and I let it get to me. I shouldn’t have, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, because it wasn’t your fault. I don’t know why you didn’t give up on me then.”

 

With Woojin’s acknowledgment of that day comes all of the feelings attached to it. No matter how much Jihoon understands the justification, it doesn’t stop him from recalling the coldness of Woojin’s words, the words he heard when he shouldn’t have, and it still hurts. He knows that they were empty words, ones crafted out of necessity, but they still fill him with spite, and for once in his life, this isn’t an emotion he wants to recall.

 

But they’re starting anew, and if there’s anything Jihoon has learned in his years of acting, it’s how to inject new meaning into empty words.

 

He tries to catch the other’s attention with a soft, “Woojin?”

 

Woojin’s eyes fall on him, gaze expectant, and with that simple motion comes the warmth at the tips of Jihoon’s ears and the dryness of his mouth.

 

But he pushes through it, determined, and declares, “I’d rather have a broken heart than give up on you.”

 

Woojin stares back at him, lips parted in perplexment, until recognition falls into place and takes over his features. His mouth only opens wider, and Jihoon might find it more than a little endearing just how easy it is to read Woojin’s expressions.

 

What’s less endearing is Woojin’s response of, “That’s so gross.”

 

Jihoon hides his face in his hands, in equal parts due to embarrassment and the exasperated laughter that Woojin’s statement brings. “I’m trying to be serious,” he whines, the sound muffled through his hands. He lifts his head with a mutter of, “You told me to be,” despite the fact that Woojin was definitely only referring to their presentation and definitely  _ not _ referring to corny declarations of affection from a highly red-faced Jihoon.

 

Woojin responds as much, standing up from his chair with a grumble of, “I was talking about the presentation, not…” he trails off, stepping close to the bed. He leans down, and Jihoon has to grip tightly onto the hem of his shirt to hide the quivering of his hands, his heart fluttering— Except Woojin doesn’t finish the sentence, pulls Jihoon’s laptop towards him, and opens it up to the presentation again. Woojin continues, “You still need to do this,” and it takes every last drop of Jihoon’s self-control to not throw the laptop at him.

 

(Jihoon tells himself it’s because the laptop would be too expensive to replace.)

 

 

 

It takes more than a few cautionary glares for Woojin to stop making comments at every slight mistake Jihoon makes, but the point does come where they manage to make it through an entire run through without breaking into laughter at one of them messing up a word or tearing at each other’s throats over some insignificant detail.

 

They reach the end of another practice run, one that doesn’t go anywhere near as well, but no matter how many times Jihoon stumbles over his words out of fatigue, Woojin doesn’t berate him. He just reaches over to close the presentation, voice low as he says, “It’s getting late, I should probably head back.”

 

Jihoon hums in response, barely registering Woojin’s words through the fog of tiredness that clouds his mind. It’s only when he hears the rolling of his chair across the floor that he peeks up from his position nestled on his stomach, and realises that Woojin is actually getting ready to leave. “Oh,” he utters, voice barely coming out above a whisper.

 

“I’ll see you,” Woojin starts, leaning down to pick up his bag, “tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah,” Jihoon responds distractedly. He’s not sure what compels him to do it— maybe it’s the hazy atmosphere of the late evening getting to his brain, or the desire to test the even hazier lines of their relationship— but he climbs off his bed, and straight towards Woojin. With the beginnings of a soft pink flushing across his cheeks, he leans in to wrap his arms loosely around Woojin’s waist, intent on taking the opportunity to bury his face in the crook of his neck— except he barely so much as grazes Woojin’s sides before there’s the sound of his bag dropping to the floor, a fist digging into Jihoon’s hair to tug his head back, and lips crashing roughly into his.

 

He almost stumbles backwards out of surprise, having been given no warning apart from the sensation of fingers winding their way up the back of his neck, but the grip on his hair and the bracing hand on the small of his back are uncompromising enough to keep him firmly in place. He wouldn’t want to leave this, anyway— there’s nothing he wants  _ less  _ than to leave the feeling of Woojin’s lips against his, the unrelenting hold on the back of his head, the warmth of Woojin’s body radiating into his skin as the hand on his back presses him closer with every second.

 

Woojin doesn’t even bother to start gently, kissing him with all force and roughness and none of the grace Jihoon is used to. But that doesn’t stop him from willingly complying, and he melts into Woojin’s touch, letting him manoeuvre the tilt of his neck to a point he’s satisfied with. It’s almost disappointing when the pressure of Woojin’s fingers tangled deep in his hair leaves, his hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck, and Jihoon wants nothing more than to be closer, to feel the pressure of Woojin’s body against his. He grasps fistfuls of the back of Woojin’s shirt in a futile attempt to pull him closer, to feel just that bit more of the heat of Woojin’s skin.

 

Woojin must have some kind of similar idea, because the hand on his neck dips down, sliding down past the ridge of his shoulderblades, meeting the hand splayed across the small of his back. As they venture further, brushing against his ass, Woojin breaks the kiss. Jihoon is practically to the point of whining at the loss of contact, but there’s hands wrapping themselves towards the inside of his thighs, Woojin bending slightly, and just as abruptly as the kiss began, he’s being lifted into the air.

 

“Wh— what the fuck,” he stumbles out, grasping blindly at Woojin’s back in an attempt to steady himself until he manages to wrap his arms around his neck. It’s a little too awkward to be considered natural, the way he locks his legs around Woojin’s waist, but it’s definitely  _ closer,  _ and that’s all he’s wanted for a long time. He clings tightly as Woojin hoists him up a bit higher, shifting his arms to a more comfortable position, and  _ oh, god, those arms.  _ Jihoon can feel the heat rising to his face, and they’re close, too close, to the point where Woojin will be able to see every last stain of red across his cheeks.

 

He doesn’t want to let Woojin see him like this, the flush of his skin and half-lidded eyes betraying his refusal to admit just how flustered Woojin has him. Embarrassment forces him to duck his head, and he feels, more than hears, Woojin’s breathy laugh in response, breath tickling against the strands of hair that have fallen in front of his eyes. Jihoon almost wishes he wasn’t too ashamed to lift his head again, because he  _ knows  _ that seeing Woojin’s smile this close would be breathtaking— but it’s all too much for him, all too sudden, and the only thing he can think to do is to hide, burying his face into the crook of the other’s neck.

 

“You’re so cute,” Woojin rasps just below his ear, lips just barely brushing against the skin, and Jihoon can’t help the shiver that courses through his body. He can barely sense that he’s being moved by no effort of his own, and he’s not entirely sure where he’s being taken— he’s more than a little disorientated at this point, for a few different reasons— but he’s grounded again with the sensation of solid wood against his back and Woojin’s voice in his ear. “You should let yourself be embarrassed more often,” he murmurs, and, judging by the ever-growing warmth that rushes over Jihoon’s skin, something deep within him must agree, “it’s cute.”

 

Jihoon lifts his head, gives the most unconvincing, “Shut up,” he ever has, and leans in to capture Woojin’s lips before he can manage a teasing remark. He almost expects for things to mellow, to get gentler, but Woojin evidently has no plans of slowing down. The kiss is just as hungry as before,  _ jealous,  _ almost, as if someone’s going to steal Jihoon away from him at any given second. Jihoon hopes that his fingers winding into Woojin’s hair is enough reassurance that he isn’t going anywhere, because there isn’t much else he  _ can  _ do pinned in the air between a door and Woojin’s torso.

 

Woojin parts their lips again, but Jihoon isn’t complaining, because soon enough there’s the warmth of Woojin leaving slow kisses along his jaw, moving gradually down his neck, and Jihoon wants more of it, tilting his head back— too abruptly, and the back of his head hits his bedroom door with a resounding thud. The sound reverberates through the silence of the room, and panic immediately sets in with the realisation that his parents are barely a room away, the sounds coming from his room are probably highly incriminating, and they have at least some idea that he’s meant to be with J—

 

Not with Jinyoung, they’ve already established this.

 

It doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

The warmth leaves his neck, and Woojin lifts his head to match his gaze again. “You okay?” he asks, and  _ no, he’s not okay,  _ but he could practically melt from the affection in Woojin’s voice, and that’s enough to make most things okay.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Sorry,” Woojin says, punctuating his pause with a brief peck. “I— probably really need to get going by now.”

 

Jihoon nods, his hand falling to hold onto the back of Woojin’s neck as he’s lowered gently to the ground. He uses the excuse of needing to steady himself for the way his touch lingers a little too long on the dips and curves of Woojin’s arms, but at this point, is there any excusing it?

 

There’s no excuse for the way he complies with another kiss; no excuse for the way he breathes in the quiet, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” mumbled against his lips.

 

 

 

When Woojin leaves, Jihoon sends and receives two different signals.

 

**parkji:** you were right, i’m sorry

 

The former is one that should come as a surprise, but doesn’t; the latter shouldn’t come as any surprise, but it still does.

 

**park woojin:** seriously, jihoon? i don’t have anything but respect for you.

  
  



	5. fragment

_act five: fragment_

 

 

 

5pm couldn’t come sooner. It’s already almost a Pavlovian response, the way his ears perk up at the sound of a car at the front of his house, the thrumming of his heart matching the distant hum of the engine. It barely takes a knock at the door for Jihoon to be there, and for once, when they lock eyes, there’s no apprehension, none of the sudden distance that seems to form every time they’re apart.

 

“Hi,” is all Jihoon says, smiling like a lovestruck teen.

 

When Woojin smiles back at him, all teeth and shining eyes, Jihoon thinks maybe that’s what he is.

 

Woojin at least has the mind to close the door behind them before he lifts a hand to cup Jihoon’s jaw, capturing his lips in a gentle kiss. It comes naturally, the way Jihoon places his hands lightly at Woojin’s waist, running down his sides, tracing the slight curve of his hips. Woojin pulls away, but just barely, brushing their noses together as he responds, “Hi.” His voice is as soft as the smile gracing his features, a hair’s breadth apart from his own, and Jihoon wishes he could carry that sound with him forever.

 

It’s such a contrast to the tone of their last encounter, not even twenty-hour hours ago— but there’s always been a certain duality to Woojin, and no matter how much distress and confusion it’s brought him in the past few weeks, Jihoon has started to grow fond of it.

 

Woojin’s eyes, too, grow fonder with every moment he spends looking at Jihoon, and all it does is make Jihoon want to kiss him more. So he does, closing the miniscule distance between them to touch their lips lightly, carefully; Woojin lets him, his hand coming to rest at Jihoon’s shoulder, reciprocating with equal caution, and everything is perfect, except there’s maybe a little _too_ much caution— and when a quiet, “Is this okay?” leaves the younger’s lips, Jihoon realises why.

 

Woojin has no idea of the hushed conversations he’s shared with Jinyoung, of doubts and realisations voiced barely above a whisper. He has no idea of the difficulties Jihoon has had with coming to terms with this, let alone admitting to Jinyoung that he was right all along. Nor does Woojin have any idea that Jinyoung is one of the most quietly understanding people Jihoon has ever met in his life, and that he’d proven just how forgiving he is once again last night. It’s simple miscommunication, and Jihoon is cursing himself for not sorting this out _before_ Woojin started having doubts.

 

“Yes,” Jihoon responds resolutely. “It’s perfectly okay.”

 

The worry marring Woojin’s expression doesn’t leave, even with Jihoon’s attempt at reassuring him. “I’m not…” he trails off, unsure of what to say.

 

“Not what?” Jihoon offers gently.

 

Woojin struggles to get the words out, lips moving with no sound until he manages, “I’m not sure whether to trust you or not.”

 

“What?” he replies, dumbfounded. “Woojin, I’m— I’m being serious. If this is about Jinyoung, we haven’t been a thing for a little while now, we both knew we shouldn’t have _been_ a thing.”

 

The last part seems to reassure him, even if only slightly, the knit of his brows easing. “It’s just hard to tell sometimes,” Woojin says, his touch gliding down Jihoon’s back, “when you’re being sincere.”

 

The concern hits him, a little too hard, but Jihoon knows it’s true— he’s spent a good half of their time together closed off, putting up a front of charm and cuteness, and it’s only recently that he’s felt even moderately comfortable letting his guard down against Woojin.

 

“I know it doesn’t mean much, not when you can’t tell if I’m ever being genuine,” he tries, his hold on the other’s waist tightening, “but I’ve seriously never been such a stuttering mess in front of anyone else in my entire nineteen years on this earth.” The declaration makes Woojin break into a grin, shoulders shaking in short laughter. “I don’t think I would let anyone else sit here for hours on end, berating me for every tiny mistake I make in some worthless speech,” Woojin sends him a look of warning, but he continues, “nor would I let anyone else pin me against a goddamn _door_ and have me blushing all the way down to my toes.

 

“I really do like you a lot, and I don’t want you to feel like I don’t.” There’s a familiar heat prickling at the tips of his ears, and he can tell there’s a blush rising on his cheeks— but he doesn’t try to hide it, he wants it to stay, to grow stronger, for Woojin to _see_ just how much of an effect he has on him.

 

There’s a smile playing on Woojin’s lips as he responds, “That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard, and I like you a lot, too.”

 

“I just— Woojin, I just declared how much of a mess you make me, and you call me _gross?_ ”

 

“Yes,” he replies bluntly. The hand on his back pulls him closer, and Woojin’s voice is low in his ear as he continues, “But the blush is cute, though, it can stay.”

 

Jihoon hits him in the chest.

 

Woojin laughs, recoiling away before he brings a hand up to run his fingers through Jihoon’s hair. “Okay, no,” he says, “I’m sorry for doubting you, I’ve never seen you attempt to punch anyone else before.”

 

“I could have punched you so many times since I’ve known you,” Jihoon grumbles, batting away the hand from his head.

 

“Oh,” Woojin replies nonchalantly. “I didn’t know you were int—”

 

“ _Woojin._ ”

 

“Sorry, I’ll stop,” he apologises, except he’s not apologetic at all, judging by the volume of his laughter. With enough glaring from Jihoon, he manages to calm down enough to speak up again; except his only contribution is, “We should actually stop though, we need to get some practice in before tomorrow,” and Jihoon can’t help but laugh at how stereotypically _Woojin_ the statement is.

 

 

 

Their run-throughs go much more smoothly this time, albeit still with some slight mistakes in dates and numbers on Jihoon’s end. Jihoon isn’t sure whether it’s just the extra day of practice, or the fact that he feels so much more comfortable around Woojin now, but he finally feels like he’s getting the hang of it.

 

“It makes sense,” Woojin tells him. “It’s just like another performance, isn’t it?”

 

“I guess,” Jihoon responds vaguely. He’s not really interested in Woojin’s poor understanding of theatre any more, he’s more interested in the slight waver in Woojin’s voice, the slight awkwardness to his stance as they stand in the middle of Jihoon’s room.

 

(It’d be better to simulate the feeling of standing in front of a crowd, Woojin told him.)

 

“You alright?” Jihoon asks, watching Woojin’s expression carefully.

 

“Yeah?” His tone is defensive, and that’s even more telling than the slight break of his voice at the end.

 

For once Woojin’s defensiveness doesn’t send annoyance coursing through him, but concern. “I don’t think you are,” he laughs softly. “Are you nervous?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you need a hug?” Jihoon croons, exaggerating the lilt of his voice.

 

“No,” Woojin restates, but Jihoon is already there, wrapping his arms around Woojin’s waist. He ignores the piercing screech of, “Don’t touch me!” that Woojin cries out in favour of tightening his hold, dragging him across the room. If he’s being honest, it’s been made clear that Woojin is the stronger of the two of them, even if only slightly— so the fact that his only resistance has been in the form of melodramatic shrieks gives Jihoon the reassurance that Woojin isn’t really objecting at all. Woojin lets out a yelp as his legs bump awkwardly into the side of Jihoon’s bed, and Jihoon just laughs, pulling with all of his body weight until both of them fall onto the mattress. Woojin’s face of fake annoyance only makes him laugh harder, and he buries his head into Woojin’s chest to muffle the sound.

 

“You’re the worst,” comes the grumble from above him, the irritation in Woojin’s voice contradicting the arm that envelops him, locking him into a tight embrace.

 

Jihoon can’t help but smile into the fabric of Woojin’s shirt when he feels the younger rest his chin on top of his head. “The best,” Jihoon corrects.

 

“Okay, ‘the best’ needs to stop digging their elbow into me,” Woojin complains, lifting his side just enough for Jihoon to pull his arm out from underneath him.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, tucking the offending arm between them to hold lightly onto the front of Woojin’s shirt. They fall into silence for a moment, the air filled with nothing but the sounds of slow breathing and the murmurs of the outside world, until Jihoon asks again, more sincerely this time, “Are you nervous?”

 

It takes a while for Woojin to answer. “I just don’t want to do poorly.”

 

“It’ll be fine,” Jihoon tries to assure him, keeping his voice low. “I don’t know how you feel, but it doesn’t matter that much, right? It's not like it’s going towards anything, you’ve got plenty of time before the entrance exam.”

 

“Yeah,” he responds evasively, and Jihoon can feel his fingers drawing absentminded patterns along his back, leaving little shivers in their wake. Jihoon wonders what it is he’s drawing; maybe an entirely meaningless group of lines, or a picture of something; maybe the lines are that of letterforms, spelling something out, possibly even something he’s trying to memorise for school. Jihoon can’t quite figure it out, though, and it’s hard to focus on the patterns when Woojin starts to speak again. “It’s more just the general fear of failure.”

 

“Oh,” Jihoon utters, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess that’s something we share, then.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Realising his voice is probably too muffled to hear, Jihoon lifts his head slowly. “I said we share it,” he repeats carefully. “The fear of failure?”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Really?” Woojin asks, gently pushing the hair away from Jihoon’s forehead. “I’d always thought you were confident in your acting.”

 

“I am,” or _I was, until you came along,_ “but that’s not all it takes.”

 

Woojin gives a slight nod in understanding. “Job prospects are bleak no matter what field, I guess.”

 

“Sure are,” he responds, distracting himself with the motion of picking at Woojin’s shirt.

 

“You’ll make it,” Woojin says suddenly.

 

“What?”

 

“You’ll make it,” he repeats. “You have that feeling, like you’re destined to be successful.”

 

“Thanks,” Jihoon replies, ducking his head once again. It’s almost embarrassing just how much those few words mean to him, and the last thing he wants is for Woojin to see him get emotional over an offhand comment. “I always thought you did, too.”

 

“You’re just saying that,” Woojin laughs, hugging him close again.

 

“I’m not!” he exclaims as best he can with a faceful of shirt.

 

Jihoon feels, more than hears, Woojin’s noncommittal hum in response. “Sure.”

 

“I’m serious,” he replies with conviction.

 

“Hi serious, I’m—”

 

Jihoon slides a hand under Woojin’s shirt to pinch him.

 

(He leaves it there, long after he ignores the resounding cry of pain he elicits.)

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

With every pair of names that get called, Jihoon sinks further into his seat. He rises a little again when it’s Jinyoung’s turn, mostly because it’s _Jinyoung,_ but also because the presentation is surprisingly well-done for a combination of the single most unimpassioned public speaker Jihoon has ever met and a kid he’s never seen pay attention in class. He might clap a little too loudly at the speech’s conclusion, but the sheepish smile he receives in return is worth every bit of public embarrassment.

 

As the lesson falls back into a blur of monotonous voices and even more monotonous content, Jihoon can feel himself sinking back down again. It becomes increasingly obvious that his prayers of getting the presentation over and done with quickly were not heard, and Jihoon curses whatever deity it is that has control over the order of low-effort Social Studies presentations.

 

That clearly doesn’t help his cause, considering the fact that he and Woojin end up being the very last pair to present.

 

It doesn’t go quite as expected— Woojin stumbles over his explanation of an event, his pronunciation of a few words slurring into different words altogether— and at one particularly interesting tangling of words, Jihoon can’t help but break into silent laughter, holding his outline over his face in an attempt to hide the stupid grin on his face. Woojin meets his eye at one point, and Jihoon almost expects him to be annoyed that he’s laughing in the middle of their presentation, but Woojin surprises him once again. He matches Jihoon’s smile with one of his own, giving a short exhale of laughter before continuing on like nothing had happened.

 

It’s less surprising that a few dates escape Jihoon’s memory, and he spends a little too long squinting at his paper to figure out whether it was 2012 or 2013 that South Korea was elected to a non-permanent seat of the United Nations Security Council for the second time, but none of that really matters.

 

What matters is the way Woojin sticks by him as they receive feedback and further questions, close enough to be a comforting presence in the vulnerability of the front of the classroom. What matters is the way he stays there, even as the class is dismissed for their lunch break, lingering for a moment before they gather their belongings. What matters is the fact that Woojin doesn’t leave his side, even when they exit the classroom with a mildly puzzled Jinyoung in tow. It’s all in the slight brush of hands, the bumping of sides, the glances they steal at one another— those are the things that matter most.

 

Jihoon finds it intriguing that Jinyoung seems perplexed by Woojin’s presence at their usual meeting spot, yet doesn’t bat an eyelid when another, smaller yet just as vocal, guest joins their company. But Jihoon keeps his mouth shut, even as Daehwi manoeuvres his way through their legs with careful steps to sit in the vacant space left between Jinyoung and Hyeop. Hyeop doesn’t question their new additions either, aside from a brief exchange of names and birth years, but at this point Jihoon is pretty sure acceptance is just woven into every fibre of his being. Jinyoung is a different story.

 

He might send more than a few suggestive glances Jinyoung’s way throughout the break, and Jinyoung looks halfway between confused and mortified— an unlikely mix, but somehow he manages it, even through his usual impassiveness. Jihoon spends the majority of their lunch trying to decipher just what that means, and he ends up deciding on the explanation of _Jinyoung is emotionally constipated, despite all of his aid in helping Jihoon figure out his own emotions, and isn’t quite sure which emotion he’s feeling any more._

 

He’ll have to help with that at a later date.

 

For now, it’s enough that comfortable conversation falls into place, albeit falling into the territory of friendly hatred in a few exchanges between Woojin and Daehwi.

 

“Can you stop touching Jihoon’s knee, I’m _eating_ here,” Daehwi cries.

 

“You’re mature enough to deal with knee-touching, Daehwi, don’t be overdramatic.”

 

“My poor young, innocent eyes,” he continues, ignoring the response completely.

 

“Who asked you to be here?” Woojin retorts.

 

“Jinyoung,” Daehwi responds matter-of-factly, and Jihoon almost chokes on his water.

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

“Woojin, what do you actually want to do?”

 

They’re sprawled out on Jihoon’s floor, the deep reds of evening sunlight filtering through the curtains to leave little smears and kisses of colour across their skin. It’s quiet, the only noise being the whirring of the fan overhead, and the occasional whirring of Jihoon’s laptop when he opens up one too many tabs. Maybe it’s the room’s quietude and languor that leads Woojin to be puzzled by the question, but it’s that same silence that led Jihoon to the train of thought in the first place.

 

“What?” Woojin responds, after more than a moment's pause to consider the question. His lack of understanding is only made more obvious by the fact that he doesn’t seem to deem it important enough to even look up from his phone. Jihoon doesn’t reply immediately, waiting for the other to figure out what it is he’s asking. Evidently the realisation doesn’t come, and Woojin continues, “Nothing?”

 

 _Well, he isn’t wrong,_ Jihoon supposes, since a whole lot of _nothing_ is all they’ve immersed themselves in for the entire evening. He lowers the lid of his laptop to watch Woojin in silence, studying the way dark hair falls carelessly across his eyes, the way individual strands catch the light to burn a bright gold. He studies the gentle arch of Woojin’s back as he props himself up by the elbows, exposed skin more golden than the colours of the room, and Jihoon thinks maybe he’s met the human personification of the sun. But no matter how out of this world Woojin may seem, even the sun has a purpose— and so Jihoon repeats, “No, what do you want to _do?_ ”

 

“What do you mean?” Woojin sets his phone aside, giving Jihoon his full attention, and Jihoon wonders how someone so academically inclined could manage to be so dense.

 

“I mean,” he starts, resting his chin in his hand, “putting aside any restrictions, what would you want to spend your life doing?”

 

Woojin narrows his eyes. “Am I supposed to answer this with something sappy like _being with you_ , or…”

 

“No,” Jihoon laughs, with equal parts airiness and exasperation. “I mean, if you want to, sure.”

 

“No thanks.” The retaliation comes easy, as all their remarks do, but this time that’s not what Jihoon wants.

 

“Woojin,” he calls, lifting himself to shuffle clumsily on his knees towards the other. He wraps his arms around Woojin’s idle figure, pulling him into a tight, and maybe moderately threatening, embrace. “Stop avoiding the question,” Jihoon says, punctuating the threat with a gentle shake of Woojin’s shoulders.

 

“What?” Woojin responds by batting Jihoon away one-handedly, shifting his weight to one side, and rolling over onto his back. Jihoon scowls down at him for a moment, but joins him anyway, taking residence in the crook of Woojin’s arm. “I don’t understand what you want me to answer with.”

 

Jihoon blinks slowly up at the ceiling, eyes fixed on the repetitive movements of the fan. It’s clear that repetition isn’t the key to getting an actual answer out of the boy next to him, and Jihoon spends some time trying to figure out how he can phrase this in a way Woojin will understand— or at least feel comfortable answering. “If I asked,” he rolls onto his side, placing a gentle hand on Woojin’s stomach, “little ten-year-old Park Woojin, ‘what do you want to be,’ what would he have answered with?”

 

In such close proximity, it’s easy to see the way Woojin’s Adam’s apple dips with the motion of a nervous swallow, and Jihoon wants to tell him, _don’t be nervous, I’m not here to judge you,_ but Woojin actually seems ready to speak up and he doesn’t want to ruin that. The answer comes in the form of a low murmur and an avoidant gaze. “A dancer.”

 

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t _that._

 

It’s not that Woojin wouldn’t make a good dancer, Jihoon is sure that with his level of determination, he’d do well in anything he put his mind to— not to mention his recent awareness of the fact that Woojin definitely has the form for dancing, and maybe Jihoon wants to see it in motion, wants to see the tensing and relaxing of his muscles a little too much— but it still comes as a surprise. Woojin’s life from an outside perspective seems so stationary, so stagnant, and it hard to imagine that the thing that brings him the most joy is not the language of words and rigid academia, but the language of movement.

 

“Oh,” Jihoon tries to keep his tone nonchalant, as if the admission hadn’t just opened up a whole new side of Woojin to him, even if just to keep the other calm. “That’s really cool.”

 

“It’d be nice,” Woojin agrees, keeping his eyes to the ceiling.

 

“Do you,” he starts hesitantly, unsure if this is a dangerous question to ask, “do you still dance?”

 

Woojin’s lips part as if to speak, and Jihoon waits patiently, but the answer never comes.

 

“You do,” Jihoon all but exclaims, lifting himself up into a sitting position. He ignores the groan of pain that comes as a result of him using the hand on Woojin’s stomach for leverage, poking at his midsection teasingly as he repeats, “You do!”

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Woojin grumbles, grabbing hold of Jihoon’s wrist to push the offending hand away.

 

“Exactly.”

 

“I don’t,” Woojin denies vehemently, but ends up qualifying the statement mere seconds later. “I don’t take classes any more.”

 

Woojin seems especially good at avoiding questions today, except he’s not good at it at all since Jihoon can see right through it. “That’s not what I asked.”

 

“Fine, I do,” Woojin admits, and Jihoon finds it hard not to smile adoringly at the slight tinge of redness of his cheeks— whether it’s from the heat of the sun or bashfulness he’s not sure, but he likes the way it colours his skin nonetheless. “Not much, I don’t really have time— and I don’t think my parents would appreciate it.”

 

“Ah, right.”

 

Woojin blinks up at him, lids heavy with lethargy and something else Jihoon can’t quite put his finger on. It takes him a while, too absorbed in scanning Jihoon’s features to speak, but he does eventually. “I kind of still wish I could.”

 

Jihoon pauses. “You’re moving away for university, right?”

 

“I’d hope so.”

 

“Have you ever considered studying dance?” he asks tentatively.

 

“And do what,” Woojin laughs bitterly. “Struggle to get paid as a backup dancer for some unknown singers?”

 

“Maybe,” Jihoon admits. “But I’m going to be struggling to get paid as an extra on some shitty webdramas, too, and I’m going to be more content doing that than anything else.”

 

Curiosity sparks in Woojin’s eyes, and Jihoon is perplexed until he asks, “Are you going to university?”

 

“Uh.” he freezes, avoiding the other’s gaze in favour of reaching for his laptop again. “I wasn’t going to,” he says, pretending to be invested in typing something highly important— he’s entering complete nonsense into a search engine, but Woojin doesn’t need to know that— and continues quietly, “but I… might be considering it.”

 

“You are?” The unadulterated shock in Woojin’s voice as he sits up is enough to make Jihoon break into a quiet bout of laughter.

 

“ _Might be,_ ” he emphasises, returning his eyes to the screen. “I mean, if you end up going to an arts university, then…”

 

“I’m not going just for you,” Woojin responds bluntly.

 

Jihoon breaks into a grin. “So you’ll consider it?”

 

The glare Woojin sends his way is reminiscent of the Park Woojin of weeks past, except it’s filled with all of the warmest hues of affection and none of the biting haughtiness of the Woojin he thought he knew.

 

The exasperation stays, though.

 

It stays even when Jihoon slides his laptop towards Woojin, browser open to myriad of university websites, it doesn’t fade when Jihoon makes little comments of _look, wouldn’t it be nice to live there,_ over Woojin’s shoulder every few minutes, and it only burns brighter when Jihoon speaks up from his spot on the floor, head nestled against Woojin’s leg.

 

“Your phone password is just your birthday?”

 

“Yeah, i— wait what?” Woojin lowers his gaze, taking in the sight of Jihoon settled comfortably against him, bright-eyed and blatantly using his phone. “Jihoon!” He tries to snatch it away, but Jihoon rolls away, arms outstretched in an attempt to keep them out of Woojin’s reach. A hand almost takes the phone from his grasp, just barely missing, and Jihoon does the only thing he can think of in his panicked state— throwing the phone across his room.

 

It makes it onto his bed by a hair’s breadth, and Jihoon ignores the exasperated cry of his name in favour of making his way to the mattress, and subsequently, Woojin’s phone.

 

“You could have broken my phone, you idiot,” Woojin grumbles.  “Whatever, enjoy, there’s nothing interesting on there anyway.”

 

Jihoon snickers, but as it turns out, Woojin is right— there’s nothing incriminating on his phone, not even anything questionable in his camera roll, and Jihoon wonders just how someone could manage to keep the contents of their phone this wholesome.

 

Especially when he would describe Woojin as anything _but_ wholesome.

 

Curiosity takes over at some point in his ventures into Woojin’s phone, and Jihoon finds himself wondering what their past conversations look like from Woojin’s perspective. He scrolls past their most recent messages, past all of the bickering and _jihoon, stop texting me in class,_ and into the earlier days. As he delves further, he falls into the deepest lows of their relationship, of thinly-veiled aggression and a severe lack of communication. It’s humbling to see it all from Woojin’s view, almost to the point of being overwhelming— it’s hard not to feel like a terrible person when he’s put on the receiving end, but the experience is grounding, and it’s what he needed. He takes his time, reading over each message carefully, until finally he lands on their very first exchange. It’s full of repulsive sweetness and self-importance, but no matter how much Jihoon’s toes curl into his sheets and his body cringes into itself, it starts puts into perspective just how far they’ve come.

 

Jihoon’s thumb hovers over the ‘edit contact’ button, and he finds himself face to face with his own self, as seen through Woojin.

 

_park jihoon_

 

He presses ‘edit name’, and starts to mull over the possibilities. His eyes wander across the room, trailing over to Woojin, sat cross-legged in front of the laptop screen. The sun has started to fade, leaving cold artificial light to ghost over Woojin’s features, highlighting the gentle curve of his lips, the relaxed, almost unfocused, look in his eyes; for all his complaints, he seems entirely unbothered by, maybe even _comfortable with,_ the fact that Jihoon is poking around in something so personal to him.

 

Jihoon thinks maybe it’s time for him to be unbothered, too. His gaze travels back down to the screen in his lap, and _park jihoon_ stares back at him. It should feel impersonal, should be the opposite of sentimental, but at some point their formal names for one another have wormed their way into his heart.

 

They’re endearing, almost.

 

“What are you doing?” a voice asks from beside him, the mattress dipping with a now-familiar weight.

 

“Nothing,” he responds a little too defensively, hastily closing the application.

 

Woojin sends him a puzzled look, reaching over to take the phone from Jihoon’s hands, and Jihoon lets him. “What,” he repeats, searching through his phone for some sign of Jihoon’s juvenile interference.

 

“I didn’t do anything,” Jihoon tells him, because he _didn’t, and that’s kind of the point._

 

Woojin’s brows knit in confusion, lips slightly pouted as he tries to figure it out. He doesn’t, because there _is_ nothing to figure out, and when he looks up to match their gazes, Jihoon’s resolve crumbles.

 

It’s hard to explain why the thought of Woojin finding out what he was doing has heat blooming through him, over the back of his neck, tinting the tips of his ears and his cheeks a dusty red— but it does, and if the quirk of Woojin’s lips tells him anything, it’s that it hasn’t gone unnoticed. “What is it?” Woojin questions, eyes not leaving Jihoon’s face. He wishes they would, because he really doesn’t want to explain, not with Woojin’s full attention on him—

 

“I was going to change my name in your phone, but I ended up getting weirdly sentimental about it, so I didn’t. I’m fully aware of the fact that that’s really dumb and I kind of want to disappear right now.”

 

Woojin blinks at him for a second, the words not setting in at first. When they do, the smirk on his face only grows. “Aw, _Park Jihoon,_ ” he croons, pulling Jihoon into an embrace so tight that he can barely breathe, or at least he likes to think it is, because otherwise that would mean that it’s the name that has him breathless, and that is _definitely not the case_ —

 

“Get off me,” Jihoon grumbles, squirming lightly enough that he won’t break out of Woojin’s hold, but enough for it to tighten around him, enough for Woojin to take the opportunity to pull him down into the mass of messy sheets and overabundance of pillows.

 

Woojin leans in for a peck on the lips, but Jihoon refuses, rolling over onto his back and turning his head in childish defiance. The arms that encircle him leave, and they find a different home, one by either side of Jihoon’s head. There’s barely any distance between them, but Woojin hovers there anyway, revelling in the way the redness of Jihoon’s face increases in both embarrassment and impatience with every second he takes. “So cute,” Woojin murmurs, and Jihoon’s toes curl into the sheets before their lips even touch.

 

(He curls his fingers into Woojin’s shirt, too, no matter how much he tries to deny it later.)

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

Sunday mornings are made up of sunlight dripping lazily through half-closed curtains, the warm breezes of mid-Spring, and kisses from Park Woojin.

 

It’s easy to forget about the outside world with warm lips on his, movements languid and slow; it’s even easier to forget with wandering hands taking their time to map out each dip and curve of his body, relaxed fingers trailing unhurriedly down the inside of his arm, intertwining themselves with his.

 

“I have to go,” is spoken in hushed tones against his lips, and Jihoon pretends he didn’t hear them, breathes them in as if they were nothing but air, meets Woojin’s lips again in another kiss. But it’s more restrained this time, and Woojin pulls back to sit upright, his full weight pressing onto Jihoon’s hips. The hand doesn’t let go of his, though, and a smile graces Jihoon’s features as Woojin lifts their intertwined hands to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “I really do have to go.”

 

“No you don’t,” Jihoon denies, lifting himself enough to hook an arm under Woojin’s, tugging at him until he complies, falling to lie by Jihoon’s side. It’s clumsy, and they spend a little too long trying to untangle their legs, but it’s familiar.

 

“I do,” Woojin responds, running his fingers through Jihoon’s hair. “I actually have responsibilities, unlike someone else.”

 

“Who?” Jihoon asks with some kind of imitation of innocence.

 

It doesn’t quite work, and Woojin laughs. “I have no idea, who could it be?”

 

“Not I,” Jihoon smiles.

 

“Right.” Gentle fingers continue to card through his hair, as if to placate him. “Not you, not the person who spends half of their class time sending me dumb texts.”

 

“They’re not dumb, they’re important.”

 

“Sure,” Woojin responds without sincerity, and Jihoon rolls over to face away from him.

 

“We get it, you’re better at studying than me,” he mumbles.

 

“You know what?”

 

A low hum is all the response Jihoon gives.

 

“Your lack of concern for school gave me hope for the good in people again.”

 

Jihoon pauses, and for a second, he’s not sure that he’s even breathing any more.

 

“Gross,” he responds, rolling over to hook a leg around Woojin’s hips.

 

He smiles into the kiss he receives in response, and even into the, “Okay, I seriously need to get ready to go,” Woojin leaves tickling at his lips.

 

As soon as Woojin closes the door behind him, Jihoon reaches for his phone.

 

The door cracks open again mere moments later.

 

“Park Jihoon, did you seriously just send me a text with nothing but the words ‘dumb text’?”

 

Jihoon laughs, lifting his free hand in the air to wave Woojin away.

 

 **park jihoon:** bye, park woojin!

 **park woojin:** i seriously hate you

 

The door closes.

 

 **park woojin:** bye, park jihoon. ♡

 


End file.
